


By Tomorrow

by carlxy



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cancer, Epistolary, I'm so sorry, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-10-30 08:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10872744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carlxy/pseuds/carlxy
Summary: Over the last couple of years Auston has been wondering why his soulmark—an MM on his right wrist that looks not unlike the dips and spikes of a pulse line—is fading. When he stumbles upon a blog of one Mitchell Marner, everything suddenly makes sense.





	1. Find My Love Then Find Me

**Author's Note:**

> Three things: 
> 
> One, I stole the title of this work from Daughter's song called "[Tomorrow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vM1xYO1NlrA)." Listen to it if you want to know where the trajectory of this story is going.
> 
> Two, leukemia is something that is very close to me and is a matter that I'll always take seriously, so this work comes from a very deep and personal space.
> 
> Three, fuck cancer!

By tomorrow we’ll be lost amongst the leaves  
In a wind that chills the skeletons of trees  
And when the moon, it shines, I will leave two lines  
Just find my love, then find me

Auston finds out about the blog by accident—or maybe not _entirely_ by accident, but it starts out like an accident—when he happens to walk past Bozie and Reemer in the locker room after morning skate, gossiping like middle school girls, their heads close together. He knows what they're talking about, because as he crosses the room he hears the word “soulmark” being thrown around.

The subject of soulmates is a very touchy, very private matter, and speaking about it out loud has always been frowned upon. It’s like the subject of skin color, or a death in the family, or how much you make in a year—you simply don’t bring it up so casually. But then again, the locker room has always been a strange no man’s land where no subject is too taboo, so Auston doesn’t call them out on it or anything. He’s not going to ruin their fun.

Auston hears Bozie saying that his Molly found it through some girlfriends of hers, and has since made him read the whole thing. “It’s so wretched it’s become our guilty pleasure.” Meanwhile Reemer nods in agreement, saying how he can’t help but read it with a sick sort of fascination, unable to stop himself from wallowing in the tragedy of it. 

Reemer happens to turn his head then, and when his eyes land on Auston a blank expression takes over his face. A heartbeat later his eyes widen almost comically, as though he suddenly realizes something. Then a funny happens. Bozie does the exact same thing. Bozie and Reemer turn to each other, and they seem to be having entire conversations with just their eyes. It’s a weird thing to see, Auston thinks.

“Matts, can I ask you something?” Reemer says hesitantly. “Have you been feeling, I dunno, weird these past few months? Exhaustion, nausea? Do you feel like you’re hurting in some areas—more than usual, I mean?”

This surprises Auston. He’s never told anyone about it, not even the team physician. He’s never had a reason to: these discomforts disappear as soon as they come. They’re not even real discomforts, more like phantom pains. It’s as if he _knows_ he’s tired but his body doesn’t. Sometimes he’d feel his back aching, but whenever he reaches back to massage it there would be no pain there. The worst part is the nausea: out of the blue he’d start thinking about throwing up, how nice it’d would feel like to just let it out, but then he has no real urge to do it. Then, after a while, they’d just disappear altogether, and he’d feel okay again. Auston has always chalked it all up to nerves; these things only began to appear when he started playing professionally.

The expression on his face must have been enough of an answer, because Bozie is leaning forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. 

“I don’t mean to pry but how’s your soulmark?” he says, a real concern coloring his face.

Auston blushes, discomfited by the question; it’s like being asked if his dick is in working order. “I—” he stammers. “It’s fine, I guess.”

But it’s not fine.

Over the last couple of years Auston has been wondering why his soulmark—an MM on his right wrist that looks not unlike the dips and spikes of a pulse line—is fading. 

When he first noticed it he did what any terrified teenager would do: consult google. But the results he got were at best vague: from the unhelpful “too much sun exposure” to the macabre “death of soulmate,” but even according to some accounts some deaths don’t cause a mark to disappear from a soulmate’s body. That’s why scientists have consistently shunned the study of soulmates; there’s neither rhyme nor reason to its machinations. It’s too arbitrary.

“Can we see it?” Bozie asks, his expression steady.

Auston wants to say no, they cannot, but at this point he’s gotten so curiousthat he doesn’t think twice before dragging up the sleeves of his Under Armour, revealing his mark that was once a deep shade of black but has since turned grey.  


Reemer and Bozie trade uncomfortable looks.

Suddenly, Auston’s heart starts skips a beat. “Do you know who it is?” he finds himself asking.

After a moment of awkward silence, Bozie burst out laughing, and it seems to Auston a little forced, unnatural. Then Reemer is chuckling too, but his eyes are dark. 

“We’re just messing with you,” says Reemer, punching him playfully on the shoulder.

Auston whacks them both with towel—hard. “You guys are assholes,” he says. “Not cool.”

As he makes his way to the showers, he can feel both their eyes on him. He tries not to be pissed about the fact that Bozie and Reemer had the nerve to joke about it just because they have both found their soulmates and Auston hasn’t. But then again he’s still young; he has all the time in the world and the rest of his life to spend with his soulmate.

That night Auston scores a hat trick, and yet despite this they still manage to lose against the Oilers, so he’s not in his most affable self when Reemer walks up to him as he’s changing into his suit asking if they could talk. Auston doesn’t snap at him, exactly, but he does say he’s not in the mood for his jokes and promptly walks out of the locker room.

On game nights it always takes Auston a while to completely exhaust all his adrenaline, so instead of going to bed all high strung, he tries to wind down and relax by watching a few episodes on Breaking Bad.

In the middle of his third episode, Auston’s phone pings on the bedside table. While Gustavo Fring threatens to murder Walter White’s wife and son and infant daughter, Auston reaches for his phone and looks at the screen.

It’s a text from Reemer.

His message is just a link to a website Auston doesn’t know, unaccompanied by neither preamble nor explanation. Before he can type out a confused reply,though, another message arrives.

“Sorry,” it all it says.

Auston furrows his brows and then clicks the link, hoping that whatever he finds there would explain Reemer’s strange behavior. When it loads all wonky on his phone, he switches to his laptop.

At first he doesn’t know what he’s looking at. The website is plainly designed, with just a white background and blocks of text in the middle. There aren’t even any sidebars to explain what the website is for. 

Auston reads the text at the very top of the page.

> **ENTRY #52**
> 
> Dear AM,
> 
> I woke up to screaming today. It was crazy. I didn’t know what was happening at first. Mom was crying on the phone. Chris was barking out orders at dad, and Dylan was wailing in my ear.
> 
> Later they told me Dylan tried waking me up for my meds, and when I didn’t he felt my pulse and found none. The sick bastard thought I was dead so he started bawling his eyes out. Chris found him in my room incoherent and, well, they were all hysterical after that. I’mstill alive, though. Obviously. So that’s neat.
> 
> Dylan said he was shaking me so hard but I swear I didn’t feel anything. I know he’s telling the truth because my shoulders are so bruised now. Not gonna lie, though, seeing his reaction was worth it. I’ve never seen him like that. Yeah, it’s fucked up but it’s comforting to know I have friends who’d cry when I die, you know?
> 
> I don’t want you to cry, though. The last thing I want is to make you sad. Whenever you feel like crying, watch this [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1VuMdLm0ccU) instead. It’s funny. I watch it at least twice everyday even though laughing tires me out so much.
> 
> Hugs and kisses,
> 
> MM

_What the hell is this?_ Auston thinks, unable to understand what he just read. Why the fuck is Reemer sending him weird links? Is it supposed to be funny or something? So in an attempt to understand the method to Reemer’s madness, he reads another one further down.  

> **ENTRY #48**
> 
> Dear AM,
> 
> Today I’m walking away from video games. That’s right. I never thought I’d ever see the day, but I guess life’s full of surprises. Here’s what happened: I was playing Call of Duty with Dylan the other day, and ten minutes into it I was already tired and nauseous and out of breath. Can you believe it? I was just on the couch the whole time. 
> 
> It was the first time this happened, so we thought it was an isolated event—but nope! We tried playing again today, and the same thing happened. So doc says no more video games :( 
> 
> I try not to be too bummed out about it, but it sucks when you keep losing the things you love—first it was hockey, then sushi, then it was my hair, and now I don’t have video games, too. Mom says I’ve already spent half my lifetime playing video games so it isn’t like I’m missing out on a lot. She was going for a humorous effect and tried to be all joke-y about it but then she started crying, so of course that got dad started, and soon we were all crying. If Chris were there he’d be crying, too. It was embarrassing. It’s funny now that I think about it but, man, seeing your parents cry is the worst.
> 
> Do you play video games, too? I wish we had the chance to play Call of Duty together so I could show you my sick moves, and then destroy you. Anyway, I need to go rest now. It’s pretty late and it’s already taken me three hours to write this because I keep stopping to catch my breath. Maybe I should start asking Dylan to write these entries for me.
> 
> Love,
> 
> MM

Auston scratches his head. Well, that made absolutely zero sense, too. 

Quite annoyed now, he goes all the way to the very beginning and promises himself that if he he still doesn’t get it by then he’s clicking the X button and going to bed. 

> **ENTRY #1**
> 
> Dear AM,
> 
> I’m starting this blog because I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life wondering where your soulmate is, who he is, what he’s doing, whether he’s ever going to show up. If our roles were reversed I’d hate for that to happen, so I won’t do it to you. I would have loved for us to be together but I’m afraid I’ve run out of time, so I’m writing this so you have something to remember me by.
> 
> My best friend Dylan is sitting beside me as I write this, and he’s telling me “dude, you’re so morbid and inappropriate.” Maybe I am but I don’t care. Fuck social conventions. Everyone can turn their noses up all they want, but you’re my person in this world and I want to give you what little of me I can while I’m still here. You deserve that much.
> 
> Anyway, you probably know jack shit about me, so here are some of the things you’d want to know:
> 
> I’m Mitchell Marner. I’m twenty years old, and I have an Acute Myeloid Leukemia. I’ve had it since I was sixteen, fifteen, maybe even earlier, and I’ve been in remission until last year, when the cancer came back and stayed despite every effort to get rid of them. I’ve never been laid, never been kissed, and I have six more months to live—or less. I’m living in Toronto with my parents. I have a brother, Christopher, who is four years older. We have a cat named Burbank and a lab named Winston. When I was a baby my soulmark appeared on my chest. “AM.” Mom says it showed up four months after I was born, so I guess you were born in September, and that makes you twenty-years-old too.
> 
> I don’t know how you’ll find this, or if you’re going to find it at all, but I’d like to believe that someday you will, and once you do everything will start to make sense. Sorry I had to do this digitally instead of in person.
> 
> I hope you’re well and healthy, wherever you are.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> MM
> 
> _P.S. I’ve attached two photos below, one of my script and one of myself (when I still had a full head of hair!) so you can compare our marks._
> 
> _P.P.S. I actually don’t like how I look in this picture but Dylan says I’m cute in it and I need to make a good first (last?) impression._
> 
> _P.P.P.S. So…did I?_

The photo—a selfie, really—shows a blue-eyed boy with a dark blond hair, a toothy grin and a too big mouth. He doesn’t have a shirt on, and Auston’s eyes automatically track down to the his left pectoral where, just a few inches above his nipple, there is Auston’s initials in Auston’s unmistakable script.

The second photo shows a piece of paper on which an exact copy of Auston’s mark is scribbled.

Auston’s hands freeze above the keys of the computer, his heart hammering against his ribcage. For a moment all he can think is, _he is my soulmate_ , _he is my soulmate_ , _he is my soulmate_ , and nothing else. Then suddenly the inside of his wrist starts to itch, or maybe _itch_ isn’t the right word, more like a tingle, a pleasant burn. This has happened a total of three times in his lifetime, and each time he didn’t have an explanation for it—even now.

So he ignores it and instead looks for the time stamp of the first entry: it was uploaded July 31st. Today is November 24th. Auston scrolls back up and goes to the landing page to where the latest entry is displayed. Entry #52 was uploaded September 22nd. 

Wild with worry he quickly goes through the time stamps of all the entries past, and studies them for a while. What he discovers is this: in the four months or so that the website has been live, there is an average of ten entries uploaded consistently every month. But obviously there has been a mistake, something is wrong with it, a technical error of sorts, because for the last two months the website has been dead silent.


	2. Lost Amongst the Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the lovely people who went out of their way to leave sweet and encouraging comments on the first chapter, you are all beautiful people and I'm sending you massive hugs from Berlin. You guys give me life. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Auston doesn’t know why optional skate is, well, optional, since everyone shows up for it anyway, and missing it will only earn you nasty looks from both your teammates and coaches, and then you start beating yourself up for not going in the first place. Who are they even kidding?

That’s why he shows up for it this morning. He doesn’t really mind, though. He’s a creature of habit; routine gives his life structure. Besides hockey is his life and his love, and it is when he’s on the ice that he feels the most alive—even if it’s just for an optional skate.

He’s getting ready to go out on the ice when Reemer suddenly pops up beside him.

Auston nods at him. “Hey, man.”

Reemer actually looks pretty scared, as if Auston’s a wild animal ready to pounce at him at any given moment. “Did you check out the link I sent you? You didn’t reply,” he says, then hastily adds, “it’s cool that you didn’t. I mean, you probably needed time to process everything.”

“Oh, I didn’t. Sorry.”

Reemer narrows his eyes at him. “Why not?”

“I feel asleep.”

“Well,” he says, slowly, “you should.”

“If this is one of those stupid memes again I swear—”

“It’s not! Just—just check it out. Trust me on this.”

Auston shrugs. “Okay.”

Reemer looks like he wants to say more, but he just pads away with a guilty expression on his face.

Auston was actually hoping Reemer would forget about it altogether, or at least not bring it up, because then he could just put it out of his mind. There’s no use feeding his brain with such silly nonsense.

It was pure coincidence, that’s all.

Surely it was just a matter of chance that he and this Mitchell Marner both shared similar scripts and initials—nothing more. Think about it. If there’s an average of seven people in the world who look just like you, surely it’s possible that you can have the same initials and script as somebody else. Run the numbers and there would be a million matches. That doesn’t mean they’re all each other’s soulmates. It’s not only a feasible explanation, it’s quite logical too. 

Auston’s soulmate is alive, and they’re somewhere out there kicking ass. Auston knows it. Auston _feels_ it. 

That his soulmate is alive—the thought lifts his spirits enough to joke around with the guys before, during, and after practice. He just wishes that he could assuage Bozie and Reemer’s concern, though, tell them he appreciates that they have his back but they have it all wrong. It was a false match. He’s fine.

**x**

That night in his apartment there’s a chill that follows him from room to room, and despite turning the temperature to high, he still feels thoroughly chilled. After spending some time in Europe, and now living in Toronto, he still isn’t as used to the cold as he thinks he is.

Auston eats his dinner in front of the TV, deliberately ignoring his laptop which has remained shut since last night. The noise from the TV comforts him a great deal. It’s loud enough to drown out the voices that hasn’t stopped yapping in his inner ear.

Once he’s done with dinner, he proceeds to wash the dishes (which he usually does), vacuum the floors (which he sometimes does), and clean his bathroom (which he never does). He throws out the trash, scrubs the kitchen counters clean, tidies up the closet, and changes his sheets and when there’s nothing left for him to do but go to bed and be alone with his head, he decides to fuck it and packs an overnight bag.

There’s no way he’s falling into that trap.

**x**

 His mother knows something troubles him. She knows because, first of all, he’s at his parents house, spending the weekend there, which during the season he rarely ever does. Second of all, he’s unusually grouchy and has already snapped at Breyana twice. Third of all, he brooding. But because she’s an infinitely understanding human being, the greatest mother anyone could ever ask for, really, she doesn’t say anything about it and gives him plenty of space. 

The moment he arrived he knew he had made the right decision, the comfort of being back home, the familiarity of everything—it’s reassuring.

During his first day he runs around the neighborhood, works out with whatever limited equipment he has, and putters around the house with his dad helping him fix what needs fixing and repair what needs repairing, and then goes shopping with his parents at Target.

Later that afternoon he tries to pass time by playing the old video games in his room, but he has trouble concentrating because his mind keeps veering back to _him_ , wondering if he had played this game too growing up, and it’s just too much so he has to stop. Then he tries jerking off, which proves to be worthwhile, if not a little troublesome, because it takes him forever to find a video featuring an actor with the right bone structure, the right grin, the right shade of dark blond hair. It doesn’t escape him for one moment, even as he spills all over his stomach, that he’s jerking off to a memory of a dead person, which, yeah, is pretty disturbing, but thankfully no one is privy to the goings on in his fucked up head.

After he cleans himself he lies back down in bed, and stares up at his wall of medals, trophies, and the many achievements he’s collected over the years. 

He’s escaped Toronto so he didn’t have to deal with his thoughts, and now in his parents’ house, in his old room, he finds himself alone with them anyway. He gets the very thing he doesn’t want. Funny how that works sometimes.

For the first time since he found the blog, Auston lets his mind wander freely. 

Does he really believe that his soulmate is alive out there?

He does. Truly. Auston believes in happy endings. It doesn’t matter who you are and what you’ve been through; you have to believe in a happy ending, otherwise what is everybody doing in this world? You might as well give up now, never leave the bed.

But. 

If he has a happy ending, then why does his heart feel so heavy? If _he_ wasn't his soulmate, then why does Auston ache to hear what his voice sounded like? If he has a happy ending at all, then his mark shouldn’t stir at the memory of a dead person, and yet it does.

He drifts off to sleep with these questions swimming unanswered in his head.

**x**

The next time he wakes up it’s gone dark outside and his stomach is rumbling. Venturing out of his room in search for food, he discovers the house dim and quiet. He finds his mom in the living room watching the a weekend program, her eyeglasses perched low on her nose. She’s illuminated by the flickering lights from the television.

It takes her a moment to notice him emerge from the hallway. “Hi, Papi,” she says, turning from the television. “Are you hungry?”

“A little,” drawls Auston.

She stands up from the couch and takes off her glasses. “Sit,” she says, cocking her head toward the dining table. “I’ll fix you some dinner.”

Auston glances around the house. “Where’s everyone?” he says, scratching his belly underneath his hoodie.

“Your sister is out with friends, watching a movie I think. And dad had to run to the office to meet with some clients of his.”

“On a Saturday?”

“You know how these clients are. Come on, sit down.”

Auston grabs a glass of water and plops down at the table. When she places a bowl of chicken tortilla soup in front of him, a surge of affection fills Auston . It’s all he can do not to wrap her in his arms. It’s his favorite, and she only ever makes it when celebrations are in order, or when he needs comforting. It’s a small gesture but it speaks volumes.

Auston demolishes it in two minutes, and then asks for another helping. When he finishes that, too, he sheepishly asks for a third. 

It’s the first time since he arrived that they are able to really sit down together and catch up. They talk about hockey, his sisters, their neighbors—one of which is apparently going around asking people to sign a petition to stop Mrs. Gutierrez, who lives a few streets over, from feeding any more stray cats, which have started terrorizing the neighborhood. 

It’s nice, spending a quiet evening with his mom like this. She isn’t trying to needle him or fish for information, and maybe it’s her eagerness to please that makes Auston say:

“How did you know it was dad?”

She doesn’t have to ask what he’s talking about, because for the past minute or so she’s been smiling at the way he’s reflexively rubbing the inside of his wrist with his thumb.

“Well,” she says slowly, “when we met I just felt this tug in my stomach, like I was being pulled toward him, you know, and before I knew it I was walking over to him to introduce myself.”

There’s a smile on her face as she recalls the story, a story Auston and his sisters know by heart from repeated telling over the years, how she was with her friends hiking up a mountain in California, and his dad was hiking alone with his dog, and then suddenly she walked over to them, started petting the dog, and introduced herself. The running joke in the family is that his mom’s real soulmate was the dog and not his dad.

“Meanwhile your father just stood there with his mouth open because his mark started to burn,” she says, chuckling. “It’s different for everybody, but for me it’s like—what do you call it when a light is blinking in the head? What do you call that, Papi?”

“A light-bulb moment.”

“Yes,” she says, nodding. “Everything suddenly makes sense. And of course you can always check your marks.”

Auston scrunches up his face. “Isn’t that a bit unfair?” he says, eyes narrowed. “That you’re assigned some random person in this world and you’re stuck with them forever? Why don’t we get a say in who we want to be with? What if you don’t like your soulmate, or worse they turn out to be a bad person?”

“I wish I knew,” she says, looking as if it pains her that she can’t give him a decent answer. “But I do know that there’s no rule forcing you to be with your soulmate. You can fall in love with somebody else, and that’s okay. A lot of people have. That’s your choice.”

“So, what, you just magically fell in love with each other?” says Auston. This is the part he’s always had trouble comprehending. You meet your soulmate and then suddenly you’re in love? It works well in fiction, but in real life it seems too contrived. 

“Are you kidding?” She scoffs. “I hated your father’s guts. He’s prickly and very quick to anger. When he found out he can’t always get his own way with a latina woman, well, it drove him mad. I still hate his guts. And I’m sure he hates how overbearing I can be. But that’s the beauty of being with your mate. You always see the reasons why it can work.”

“Have you ever considered what your life would have been like if you haven’t ended up with dad?”

“Of course,” she says. “Lots of times. Usually when we’re fighting. I don’t particularly like to, but I do it.”

Auston is quiet after that.

“I found him,” he says after a while. “I found my mate.”

His mom reaches across the table to grasp his hand. “Oh, Papi, that’s great,” she says, and she looks genuinely pleased about it.

Auston’s gaze fall on their hands. “Not really,” he says, a sad smile on his face. “He’s gone now.”

“What do you mean?”

Telling his mom about the whole thing is harder than Auston expected, not least because of the sad look she gives him the whole time. But the thing is, he’s more disappointed than sad.

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “I’m not so torn up about it.” Well, that’s not entirely true, and he thinks his mom sees through it.

She asks him a bunch of questions after that, and he tries to answer as best as he can, but when she senses that he’s not feeling up to it, she doesn’t press.

He retreats to his room after because he fears his mom would start crying if they spend another minute talking about the subject. By tomorrow he knows the news will have spread and the whole family would know. He has to mentally prepare himself for that.

It occurs to him that by telling his mom about it, he’s somehow made everything real, acknowledged the bond, made it official. He’s not quite sure how he feels about that.

Auston has a hard time falling asleep that night, and after tossing and turning in bed for two hours, he finds himself booting up his old computer, opening his browser, and typing out a web address he didn’t deliberately commit to memory but managed to memorize anyway.

He picks up where he last left off.

 

> **ENTRY #2**
> 
> Dear AM,
> 
> You probably want to know more about my condition, so I’ll explain it to you in terms you’ll understand—an Idiot’s Guide to Mitch’s AML, if you will. 
> 
> Acute Myeloid Leukemia is basically a cancer of the bone marrow—that’s where our blood cells are made. What happens when you have AML is that the cells being produced don't turn into white blood cells like they should. (White blood cells, by the way, are responsible for fighting infections. That’s why pus is sorta white, that’s them fighting the infection. Cool, right?) So instead of going out to fight infections like normal WBCs, these little shits—they’re called myeloblasts and monoblasts—just chill in the bone marrow. Eventually they crowd the bone marrow, preventing it from making normal cells and letting them become full grown WBCs, and like the freeloaders that they are, they get ambitious and look for greener pastures, spreading outside the blood and into other parts of the body. So now my body is full of abnormal cells and has a hard time functioning as it should because there are so many of these assholes around, and soon all my bodily functions will shut down and then it’s game over. 
> 
> I found out about it when I was sixteen. I used to play hockey, and at first I thought it was the reason I was tired all the time. But months leading up to my diagnosis, I was constantly sick with the flu and it kept coming back. Then one night during one of our games my legs started hurting so badly that when I stood up from the bench I passed out from the pain.
> 
> Let me tell you, waking up in the hospital and being told you had leukemia—it’s not nice. When they first said I had it I didn’t understand a thing. I barely even knew what leukemia was. Then one of the doctors starting saying “cancer,” so I turned to my mom who had rushed over to the hospital and I asked her if I had it, and when she said that I did the tears started pouring down my face. No kidding. There were rivulets rolling down my cheeks. Then all these bad thoughts starting entering my head. I thought I wasn’t going to be around for much longer (turns out I was right, but more on this later) and I swear all sixteen years of my life flashed before my eyes. It’s a thing, apparently.
> 
> Then the doctors told us, my mom and I (dad was on a business trip and we didn’t tell him about it until he came back three days later [he cried more than mom and I and Chris {we broke the news to him that night when mom forced him to come over} combined]), that there were a lot of options available and there was a very good chance that we could turn it around because I was young. 
> 
> Dylan was the first person I told outside the family. I was really scared because I didn’t want him to treat me like a cripple or pity me or something, but when I told him he just looked at me and said, “Okay, how do we beat it?”
> 
> That really set the tone for the two years in hell that followed, because we weren’t going to let this disease depress the fuck out of me. How I reacted to it—that was the only thing I still had control over, you know? (Did you know that cancer patients have a 50% more chance of succumbing to their illness if they’re sad and depressed about it? I read it in a study in _Cancer Today_ or some other journal.)
> 
> At the hospital I liked visiting the children’s ward because you see these kids, five-, seven-, ten-year-olds, babies all the same and they’re always laughing and smiling and not caring that they have this mysterious disease slowly eating away at their insides. It’s hard to continue being sad when you’re there.
> 
> Do you want me to go into specifics with my treatment? Is that something you want to know, because they’re pretty gnarly. I started my first round of chemo two weeks after my diagnosis and it lasted two years. The cancer ward was nice. The rooms were big and each room had a massive TV and an Xbox, so that was pretty sweet. I finished all of Game of Thrones in three days, but I was out of it most of the time and had to rewatch some episodes so maybe in reality I finished it all in five days. As for the chemo itself, well, I don’t know how to describe it really. It’s extreme exhaustion mixed with unrelenting nausea and sickness and pain and on top of it you’re fighting a mental and emotional battle, blaming, overthinking, pleading, and all the while you have this poisonous substance flowing through your veins. And that’s just one session of it. You have to go back in and do it over and over again for years. It’s torture.
> 
> I went into remission after I fished my first round of treatments, although the treatments never really stop because you have to go on a maintenance phase to kill off the remaining cells that could cause recurrence. My life pretty much started to go back to normal after—although I had to be more careful about what I eat and how I move, and of course the drugs. I even considered playing hockey again, but just when things started to look up for me the cancer came back.
> 
> The second time, I won’t say it’s easier exactly but there was much less waterworks involved. Instead of crying everyone got angry, angry that it came back, angry that I had to go through all of that again. As for me, I was already mulling over death quite a lot at that point (not in an emo kind of way, more objectively), so I wasn’t surprised at all. I was even calm.
> 
> When the new drugs and the more intensive dose of chemotherapy didn’t work, we started to consider a stem cell transplant. Thankfully Chris was a good match so I didn't have to wait for a donor. It went well at first, and for the week that followed I had to get regular blood tests and take a cocktail of antibiotics and get platelet transfusions. Sometime later we found out that the transplant basically did nothing. My doctors said we could put the leukemia into remission again with more chemo, although it wasn’t likely to be long-lasting. Mom and I got into a fight when I said I didn’t want to do that, and I get it because she was scared to lose me, but she eventually understood that the bad stuff outweighed the benefits and there really was no point in it. I think she still believes that she’s letting me die, but that’s not true. I just want to still be myself when I go, you know? So they said I had an X to Y amount of time left to live. To be told that you’re going to die soon—there’s something reassuring about that.
> 
> I know what you’re thinking: 
> 
> _How can this asshole be so chill about everything?_
> 
> I’m not all the time. Some days I don’t want to see anyone and I wallow in the pits of despair for days on end, but I figured I’m gonna die anyway. I might as well live my last days happy and laughing at the face of this disease. I sound like a fucking cliche, I know, but the cliches they say? They’re all true. You won’t really understand the wisdom in “live every day like it’s your last” unless you’re living on borrowed time.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I can’t remember all the names of the drugs I was under, but I do remember that they administered Vincristine into my blood stream, Methotrexate into my spine to replace spinal fluid, and I also took daily tablets of Mecaptopurine. I know these names because I still take them to this day.
> 
> Yeah, I’m still doing chemo, but now it’s _much_ less intense and it’s only meant to slow down the growth of the leukemia instead of curing it. I’m in what they call “palliative care.” Basically they’re just trying to make my life as comfortable as it can be until I die. One upside to this is that I get to keep all my hair! They’re slowly growing back! If anything I’m gonna die cute, and that’s all I can ask for, really. 
> 
> It’s the little things, AM.
> 
> I don’t know what else I can tell you. I can tell you that quitting hockey has been one of the most painful things I ever had to do. I can tell you that I’ve regained the function of my dick, but sometimes it still refuses to cooperate. I can tell you that I’m not scared to die, but that I’m scared of how my family will cope. I can tell you that some days are harder to go through than others, but that every new day I’m given is better than all the morphine they pump in me.
> 
> I’m not sure if you’d like to hear this, but sometimes it makes me feel better imagining your arms around me when things get especially hard. I hope you don’t find that creepy. I just really like to cuddle. All I have is Dylan and he’s the worst cuddler in the world.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> MM

**x**

Everyone in the locker room stops talking when Auston walks in, and immediately an awkward silence suffuses the room. Not only that, they all literally turn their heads away with comic synchronicity as soon as they see him, which would be hilarious had the circumstances been different, but Auston isn’t in the mood for anything but to get through morning skate. 

He lets it roll right off his shoulder and goes to his stall to change.

It doesn’t stop there, though. He catches some of the guys throwing cautious glances his way, while others openly stare at him like they have the self-control of a nine year old. Auston ignores them, too. He doesn’t care what it is they know and how they knew about it. 

In all honestly he should have expected this to happen.

It’s bad enough that his phone hasn’t stopped blowing up with concerned texts from his network of aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins he hasn’t even heard from in years, and that’s just from his mom’s side of the family. Now he has to deal with it at work, too. 

Auston tries as much as possible to keep to himself and not let it get to him, he really does, but the last straw is when, as he exists the room, Naz, who is a few paces ahead of him, goes out of his way to hold the door open for him. Which he _never_ does. Something in Auston just snaps. He slams the door shut, making some of the guys jump, and then puts his back against the door to face everyone. 

“All right,” he says, his eyes sweeping through the room. “If there’s something you want to say to me, I’m all ears.”

For all his bulk and brooding presence, Auston isn’t given to explosions of anger.In fact he isn’t very much given to accesses of emotions, so this is quite an astonishing display for the guys to see.

Willy, bless his heart, opens his mouth like he actually wants to say something,like _apologize_ , but thinks better of it at the last second and shuts his mouth.

“No one? Because I really can’t stand all these pitying looks you’re giving me.” There’s a challenge in his voice, but when no one speaks, he sighs and shakes his head. “I’m fine. I’m all right, okay?” he says, softer now. “You can all stop doing whatever you’re doing now. It’s fucking weird.”

A collective assent goes around the room.

Auston nods, and is the first one out of the room. They all try to act normal around him after that, and although he can still feel some tentativeness coming from some of the guys, on the whole he is thankful for all of them.

Auston throws himself into practice, allowing the pleasant pain of exertion anchor him here, where he is needed and where he can do good work. He does the drills with gusto and with perhaps more effort than they are worth. The burn in his chest, the slice of blades against the ice, the clacking of sticks—he lets these things take his mind off Mitchell. 

_Mitch_. 

His name still feels foreign in Auston’s tongue. Maybe someday Mitch’s name will be as familiar to Auston as his initials are—or will his name start fading, too?

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Auston needs to snap out of it before he gets sucked into this vortex. They have a game to win tonight. 

He fills his head with as much hockey as he can for the rest of the day. It works,too, because they win 3–2 against Montreal that night.

**x**

Over the next couple of weeks Auston puts off reading the rest of Mitch’s blog, not because he doesn’t want to read it (he does, very much so), but because he doesn’t want to run out of Mitch too soon. There’s only so much of him left, and once Auston finishes the whole thing, what then? So he reads the entries slowly, savoring every word of it.

Tonight he decides he can read another one, an extravagance he thinks he can afford.

 

> **ENTRY #7**
> 
> Dear AM,
> 
> Did you know that sometimes I feel you? Literally. As in I can literally feel what you’re feeling and thinking. It’s always stronger at night. I don’t know why. There are times when I just feel like I’m right there first-pumping with you, being all excited like you, and sometimes I would even feel your disappointment rolling off of me in waves. 
> 
> My favorite is whenever I get this sudden burst of joy in me. When it happens I try to hold on to it as long as I can because, well, joy has become quite a commodity around here. Anyway. I want to tell you about this one night last year when I felt this intense celebratory joy four times in a row, and there are others thrown in as well, like pride and relief, and I think you were a little bummed out in the end, too. But the whole night I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. It was amazing.
> 
> Which makes me wonder, what is it exactly that you do? Dylan said you’re probably an actor or something, because they’re required to feel all these intense emotions at once. But then I realized we’re the same age, so you’re most likely in college. I considered going to college, too, you know? I had a scholarship offer from University of Michigan when I was still playing hockey. I don’t know why I felt the need to say that. Well, actually I do. I want to impress you, I guess, to let you know, I wasn’t completely useless before I got sick.
> 
> You’re pretty quiet tonight, though. I’m not getting anything. Maybe you’re already sleeping. If that’s the case, then sweet dreams, my darling.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> MM

During his NHL debut, Auston thinks. Mitch was there. Not physically, no, but he was there with him. It comforts him to know that he was able to at least share that moment with him, because that night will always be one of his proudest.

For a moment Auston allows himself to imagine Mitch being there in the stands at Air Canada Centre cheering him on, imagine hearing his voice above everyone else’s. Auston smiles to think of it.

Loath as he is to admit it, his nights have begun settling down this way; he put himself to sleep with images of Mitch in his head, images of the fictitious life they could have had. He finds solace in it. It’s…nice, all things considered.

Before closing his laptop for the night Auston refreshes the page one more time. It’s a neurotic habit he’s developed, borne out of his wishful thinking that maybe if he refreshes it enough times a new entry would magically appear there.

So it’s a surprise when the page finally reloads and he suddenly finds a new entry on top of the page.

For a second, he thinks it to be a death notice, an obituary confirming what he already knows—that Mitch is dead. But it’s not an obituary, just another entry. 

As he starts reading it Auston can’t help the spark of hope that kindles in the pit of his stomach.

 

> **ENTRY #53**
> 
> Dear AM,
> 
> Good news: I’m alive.
> 
> Bad news: I’m alive.
> 
> I should explain: I had pneumonia the past couple of months. Have you ever had it? Because if you have you’d know it’s really bad. But for someone with a weakened immune system like me, its _super_ bad. Bad enough to kill me. Doc actually said I should be dead. (Why do they use such scary language, do you know? It’s almost like they want you to be scared or something. They have no tact, these doctors.) They said it was a miracle, but it didn't feel like a miracle. I actually wanted to die because I felt like death itself—or at least that’s what I imagined death would feel like. Pain I can handle. I hate the idea of being in pain, but once I’m _in_ pain I can deal with it. But it isn’t just pain, pneumonia. You’re sore and aching and you can’t breathe, which isn’t exactly painful but very uncomfortable. You’re also cold and coughing all the time, which feels like being stabbed repeatedly in the chest with hot tiny knives. I was literally drowning from the inside out because fluid started to collect in that thin space between my lungs and chest cavity, which then got infected and had to be drained by inserting a tube in me. Oh, my liver almost failed also because the infection had traveled there. My poor liver. Thank god it pulled through. I’m feeling quite miserable still but I’m recovering now, so I guess all is well in the Marner household. Today’s the first day I’m given back my computer privileges. Mom confiscated it after she called me a “recalcitrant” child. I had to be a good boy to get it back. Lol.
> 
> Lotsa love,
> 
> MM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for all the errors in grammar and formatting.
> 
> As always, all comments are welcome and appreciated! I'd love to hear from you.


	3. Just the Outlines of Our Hands

> **ENTRY #20**
> 
> Dear AM,
> 
> One upside to having cancer is that you find out who your real friends are. I remember having a bunch of people who’d come out and visit me, but as time went by most of them stopped coming. Then there was this one guy from my hockey team who cut me off from his life completely—no calls, no texts, he even unfriended me on Facebook and refused to talk about me. Which was strange because until then I thought we were pretty tight. When I went into remission he started hanging out with me again like nothing happened. It’s very weird but I don’t blame him. I read somewhere that our brains are wired to avoid sick people. It’s a defense mechanism. So to most people, even though rationally they knew I couldn't get them sick, they didn’t want to be anywhere near me. We all react differently to cancer, I guess.
> 
> Here’s another thing I noticed: whenever people learn about my cancer, I always end up being the one comforting them. For example, this lady at Metro came up to mom and me yesterday after she overheard us talking about my chemo. She said her sister had died of breast cancer a few months ago, and that it saddened her to think such a young boy like myself had to go through all that pain. Then her eyes got all watery and shit and I had to hug her and tell her I was fine, I wasn’t in pain, and that the doctors were doing everything they could to make me better. It also happened a lot with friends and family the first time I got sick. I always told them they didn’t have to worry, I was gonna be fine. All of it lies, of course, because what are you supposed to say? You don’t want to burden them with your disease. So you just play it down. I just think it’s really funny how the comfortee always becomes the comforter. 
> 
> XO,
> 
> MM

**x**

It has been six days since Auston found out that Mitch is alive, and in those six days he's gone on a week-long road trip across eastern Canada, played three equally grueling games (lost one, won two), sulked, cried, thought, masturbated thinking about Mitch, and when he wasn’t doing any of those things he read and reread the entries on Mitch’s blog. A blog that is meant for him to read but is weirdly enough not being read by just him. At this point a lot of people has started reading it: his family, the entire team, their wives and girlfriends and partners and god knows who else. Auston suspects that even Babcock has started reading it, because lately he’s been giving him these meaningful looks, and often his eyes would linger a heartbeat too long.

Auston still doesn’t quite know how to feel about all these people knowing so much about  his private life—or at least an aspect of it. If it’s any consolation, none of them ever mention it or comment on it or even allude to it in his presence, although Auston knows by the way they act around him that they want to.

Particularly about the fact that it’s been six whole days and Mitch still has no idea who or where his soulmate is.

If anyone were to ask him, though, Auston has prepared a couple of stock answers he could give; he’s spent a few days coming up with and rationalizing them.

_He’s already dying_ , Auston could say. _He’s managed this far without me. Why make contact now? I don’t want to make his already complicated life even more so by showing up_. 

Auston’s not entirely sure he believes these bullshit responses himself, or if anyone would, but on some level they do make sense to him: He’s not even sure Mitch would want him showing up during his last few dwindling months, and if he does show up, he would only be seeing the shell of the person Mitch once was. Auston thinks Mitch would hate that. 

Auston would, if it were him.

But if you were to get a few glasses of beer in him, though—like he’s doing tonight in the comfort and privacy of his own apartment—and ask him point-blank what exactly it is that’s going on in his head, Auston would say that he’s terrified out of his fucking wits. He just doesn’t know what to do.

If his life were a Hallmark movie, this is the part where everything starts to fall into place, the part when the boy, in an access of emotion, goes against all odds to be with his girl, and would then _get_ the girl and they’d live happily ever after. His life is neither that easy nor convenient, though.

Auston knows that he should be relieved that Mitch is alive, but relief is far from what he's feeling.

Finding the blog and believing his soulmate had died—Auston wouldn’t wish it upon his worst enemy to go through the whirlwind that that episode caused. The bouts of simmering anger that never quite boiled over. The agony that would wake him up in the middle of the night. The longing for something he had always wanted but knew he could no longer have. And the questions.

Jesus. 

The many Whys and What Ifs that nagged at him on every corner, at every turn.

Yet in spite of all that pain, they gave him some sort of closure: at the back of his mind he knew there was nothing else for him to do but accept that these were the cards he had been dealt. There was some comfort to be had in knowing his soulmate was at peace, that he was no longer hurting, suffering. 

In a way it allowed him to start mourning. 

Now that’s all changed.

Mitch is alive, but so is the cancer inside of him. Sooner rather than later that cancer will overwhelm his body in a battle that he’s bound to lose. The thought of losing Mitch a second time… 

It paralyzes Auston.

He doesn’t know if he could bear to go through all of that again. The first one was bad enough, and he barely even knew Mitch then. So instead he lurks on Mitch’s blog and tries to be with him the only way he knows how:

 

> **ENTRY #15**
> 
> Dear AM,
> 
> A friend from the cancer ward suggested to me once that, as an antidote to self-pity, I write down the things that make me happy. So I thought I’d do that today.
> 
> 20 THINGS THAT MAKE MITCH HAPPY:
> 
>   1. When Winston gets his snuggles in
>   2. Peeling a whole orange in one go
>   3. Hot chocolate on a winter day
>   4. Fat babies
>   5. Step Brother (it’s a movie, btw)
>   6. Old people holding hands
>   7. Singing a song in public and having someone sing along with me
>   8. The smell of rain
>   9. Someone getting my references
>   10. Finding an oddly shaped baby carrot
>   11. Making a girl smile with a compliment
>   12. Hearing someone use my name in a conversation
>   13. Q-tipping after a shower
>   14. Beating my high score in a video game
>   15. The sound of distant thunder
>   16. Watching the Leafs play
>   17. Watching Auston Matthews play
>   18. Looking up at the stars on a clear night
>   19. Walking outside without having to stop for a breath
>   20. Cuddling
> 

> 
> I wonder what your list would look like.
> 
> Love,
> 
> MM

**x**

That Mitch used to play hockey is something Auston learned early on, but he doesn’t really understand how big of a deal it really is until he reads ENTRY #17 in which Mitch admits, “I know I kinda gloss over it a little bit. I guess it’s still a sore spot for me. I want to change that, though. I don’t want it to be a chip on my shoulder for the rest of my short life so I figured I’ll tell you more about it today. Growing up in Toronto I’ve always been a huge Leafs fan…”

He tarted playing hockey at seven with the Clarington Toros of the OMHA. Then he moved on to the Whitby Wildcats for which he played two years before joining the Vaughan Kings of the GTHL, with whom he eventually won a title.

In his minor midget year he played for the Don Mills Flyers, putting in impressive numbers (41 goals and 86 points in 56 games). He subsequently joined the St. Michael's Buzzers of the OJHL where he went on to win a championship. When he was fifteen he was drafted in the first round by the London Knights in the OHL Priority Selection. He was 19th overall.

Then the cancer came and dashed his dreams of playing top-level hockey. 

Mitch tries to downplay it by saying, “I’ve always been too small for a hockey player, so it wasn’t likely that I would have made it, but a guy could dream, right?”

But as Auston watches highlights after grainy highlights of Mitch’s games on YouTube, it’s easy to recognize the raw talent there. The first thing he notices is that Mitch, even this young, had a very clever way with the puck. Had he been given time to mature and hone his skills he would have been a major pain in the defense’s butt; he wouldn’t be someone you could keep in check the whole game but you have to try, unless you want to give points away.

A swell of pride blooms in Auston then, but it’s quickly replaced by a bitter pang of guilt. Mitch had showed so much promise, and then just like that everything was ripped from him. If Auston’s own career ended before it even had a chance to begin, to say that he would be crushed is a severe understatement—all this parents’ sacrifice and all of his hard work for nothing.

“Did you know that I haven’t even been on the ice in five years?” Mitch’s entry continues. “It’s not like I can still skate because my balance is for shit these days, and I doubt I can stay upright for more than ten minutes, but sometimes I just ache for it. I miss it so much.

“I used to blame a lot of things for the way everything turned out, like my shit genes, then my parents for giving me the shit genes, and then the universe for being so unfair to me. I think I’m a good person. I _believe_ I’m a good person. I’m polite. I’m respectful. I donate clothes to the needy. At school I defended kids from bullies and I never hurt anyone’s feelings on purpose, and yet at the end of the day I’m the one with cancer and no hockey.

“Some days I find myself thinking that way, but I try not to anymore. It’s such an ugly way to live, don’t you think? Always pointing a finger at somebody/something instead of taking responsibility for your own life. I’m in pain, yeah, but who isn’t? These days I just want to be grateful that I even had hockey in the first place. It’s better, I think, than no hockey at all.”

**x**

From the moment Auston steps out onto the ice, he gets the feeling that they’re going to have a good game. It also helps that they’re playing on home ice, against the Sabres. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the energy and verve that the home crowd lends to the whole arena, and in turn to the rest of the team.

Drawing a steady, calming breath, Auston takes in the blare of the music, the roar of the crowd, the solid ice underneath his blades and promises himself to have a great time.

The first period opens on a high note: six minutes and forty eight seconds into the first period, he fires a short-handed goal into the Sabres’ net. But then later, with three minutes left on the clock, Sam Reinhart ties the game on a power play goal.

The game really picks up on the second period. At 5:37 Naz deflects Hymie’s shot into the Buffalo net, giving the Leafs a 2–1 lead. At 7:30, Marty’s shot is blocked at the net but Leevs grabs the rebound from the other side and shoots it into the net. Marcus Foligno cuts the lead, 3–2, at 13:21 after shooting a rebound past the Leafs’ net, but they score right back at 14:15 with Auston’s goal on a 2-on-1 breakaway. At 16:11, the Sabres score their second power play goal after Jake McCabe’s shot deflects over the net, hits the glass, then eventually bounces into the crease where Jack Eichel taps it into the net before Freddy can find the puck.

In the third period, Jack Eichel ties the game, 4–4, at 1:04. At 10:08 Leevs scores the Leafs’ first power play goal, but the Sabres answer half a minute later with Rasmus Ristolainen’s equalizer. 

With both teams having 5 goals each, they head into overtime.

Overtime is one big blur of traps, shots, blocks, and rebounds, so when Bozie finally scores a breakaway goal with eight minutes and forty seconds left on the clock, Auston is at the other end of the ice and doesn’t actually see it happen. He just hears the sound of the goal horn blaring and the explosion of celebratory cheers.

A wave of glee overwhelms Auston then.

He skates toward the nearest teammate he sees, who happens to be Marty some twenty feet away, but as he starts to propel himself forward, he distinctly senses a pair of eyes on him, and when he turns his head, his eyes land on a face that has in many ways become as familiar as his own, there just beyond the Plexiglass. 

It pulls him up short.

At first he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him, deceiving him into seeing something he so badly wants to see but isn’t actually there. After all, how many times has he seen Mitch’s face on other people’s heads, only for it to transform into someone else’s at the blink of an eye?

But there’s no mistaking that face. Auston _knows_ that face. He has spent hours staring at and dreaming of that face.

Suddenly everything else blurs into the background—the music, the crowd, the noise, the pictures at the edges of his vision.

As though in a daze, Auston finds himself slowly skating towards the boards. It’s like he’s lost control over his legs, and all he could do is watch where they will lead him.

Mitch straightens up when he sees Auston approach, his expression unreadable, but when Auston nears the glass enough to touch it, Mitch’s face slowly breaks into a warm, toothy smile, the way a flower blooms in spring, open and beautiful.

Auston raises a gloved hand, his way of saying, _hi_ , _you’re here_ , _I see you_ —or atleast that’s what he tries to do.

But before he can actually raise his hand, Auston finds his arms full of Marty, who has tackled him from the side, followed by Reemer and Willy and just like that the spell is broken. The next thing he knows he’s being dragged away from the boards and toward the other side of the rink where the rest of the guys are.

It takes him a few solid minutes to snap out of his reverie, and when he finally does, he tries to wrench himself free from the tangle of limbs and sticks. Once he has, he skates over to where Mitch was just moments ago and finds the seats empty.

That night, when he gets home, Auston finds this entry waiting for him on top of Mitch’s blog.

 

> **ENTRY #61**
> 
> Dear AM,
> 
> Mom is shooting daggers at me because it’s late and I should be resting, but we just got back from the Leafs’ game tonight and they won so we’re all in a pretty good mood. Dad got us good seats, right up at the boards, and that’s the closest I’ve been to the ice since the you-know-what. Doc had actually been very reluctant to let me come because he didn’t want me to overexert myself, but tonight was the first time we did something that wasn’t cancer-related in a long time, and I think it’s what everyone needed. It was nice to hear mom laughing again. 
> 
> Oh, and by the way, something really freaky happened to me tonight. It was right after the game ended. We were in our seats waiting for the people to thin out, and then suddenly I felt like all the wind was knocked out of me, like something hit me square in the chest, but there was nothing painful about it. Then the next thing I knew I was making eye contact with someone whose name I don’t think I should even mention because it was so embarrassing. I was sort of undressing him with my eyes a little bit and I think he knew it too because he had this hard angry look on his face the whole time. I swear to god I wish I was dead. 
> 
> I’m still hoping that it was all in my head, you know? A product of my chemo brain. One time I legit dreamed that I was being chased by giant chickens in a children’s playground—only, I wasn’t really asleep. I was on the couch watching the Big Bang Theory the whole time.
> 
> Anyway, mom is getting upset now. She’s threatening to revoke my computer privileges if I don’t go to bed “right this instant.” So that’s all for now on the Marner front.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> MM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this story has been so positive thus far, and I appreciate all the comments you guys are leaving me. Thank you! I promise to make the next chapter extra special; I think the boys have suffered enough (for now).


	4. Leave Our Troubles in the Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best. Thank you for all your positive comments. You sure do know how to make a guy happy. Enjoy this chapter!

A few days after their win against the Sabres, Babcock calls Auston into his office. 

It comes as a surprise because their post-morning skate meeting has just been adjourned, and being called into coach’s office only means one thing: he’s going to get his ass handed to him.

Some of the guys “ooh” like the assholes they are as Babcock walks out of the locker room, and Auston grips the towel slung over his shoulder a little tighter. 

He knows he hasn’t been bringing his A game these past couple of games. He has no trouble scoring goals, yes, but his game has recently been so sloppy, has somehow lost the control and finesse that have always set him apart. It makes even he cringe when they go back and review the tapes. There’s so much more he can give, and knows he’s better than what he’s lately been showing; he decides to stress these points to coach as he drags his sweaty butt into his office.

When he gets there, Auston is ready to launch into a monologue, but before he can, Babcock points a finger at one of the chairs at his desk, instructing him to take a seat. Auston does.

“Now,” Babcock says as he leans back into his chair. “I don’t usually meddle with my players’ private affairs because that’s outside the realm of my responsibilities, but I’m making an exception on this one. Let’s just say I have a soft spot when it comes to things like this.”

“I don’t understand,” Auston says slowly, brows furrowed. He doesn’t have a very good feeling about this.

“I called up one of my buddies from London,” Babcock says. “Lindsay Hofford. He’s the scouting director for the Knights and he’s been a close family friend to the Marners for many years. He’s known Mitchell since he was a little boy in Vaughan.”

As Babcock says this, he is going through the many files on his desk, which at first glance appears to be cluttered but in reality is very organized. When he finds the folder he’s looking for, he takes from it a small piece of paper and slides it toward Auston.

Auston picks it up, reads the address written there, and immediately understands what he wants him to do.

“Coach, I can’t.”

Babcock stares him down. “You can and you will,” he says, an edge to his voice. “When you find your soulmate…you just don’t let them slip.” A somber expression crosses Babcock’s face then, and under the harsh light of his office his face seems even more wrinkled and tired.

Auston suddenly remembers a story he once heard going around the locker room. Back then he was just a rookie and didn’t feel as though it was his place to ask for particulars, but from what he gathered, Babcock’s wife Maureen had had a skiing accident. Later they all learned that she had fallen into a coma. Not two months later, she was dead.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t regret not having spent more time with my wife while she was still here. Every day I never stop wishing we had one more day,” he’s saying now. “You don’t want to make that mistake, son.”

It doesn’t escape Auston’s attention that he’s doing this, that he is actually talking about mortality and soulmates with Babcock of all people, which is both awkward and touching in equal measure and is probably the reason why he suddenly finds himself saying, “I’m scared.”

“Good. It means you care.” Babcock leans forward and steeples his hands. “You think you’re protecting yourself by staying away”—he chuckles at this—“but let me tell you, son, it’s going to hurt either way. It’s going to hurt long after it’s all over, and when you think yourself safe and happy again, it’s going to knock you right back down. There’s no escaping it, so you better make the pain count.”

“I don’t think I’m ready,” he argues, and it’s the truth, too.

“If everyone does things only when they’re ready, then we won’t get anything done.”

Auston has no reply to this, so he looks down on the piece of paper in his hands.

“I know I’m stepping out of line here, but whenever I see someone being deliberately obtuse I feel morally responsible to do something about it,” says Babcock. 

Sighing, Auston nods.

“We’ll talk about cleaning up your game once you have that sorted out.”

When there’s nothing left for him to do, Auston stands up and heads for the door, but before he could open it, Babcock calls out his name.

“And please,” he adds, his face full of paternal exasperation. “Don’t make the poor boy wait. He’s suffered enough, don’t you think?”

Auston is seething by the time he returns to the locker room, the piece of paperBabcock gave him crumpled in his fist, and the guys who are still there know better than to get in his way once they notice the expression on his face.

Why can’t just people mind their own business and leave him alone? Since he found out about Mitch it feels as if he has lost all control of his own life and he’s just going through the motions set by the people around him. Does he not have a say in what goes in in his life anymore? 

He is still fuming by the time he leaves the arena, but once he gets on the road it occurs to him that maybe his anger is a little bit misplaced. He doesn’t think he’s angry at Babcock or at Mitch or at anyone else, really. Mostly he’s angry at his himself; disappointed, frustrated, irritated, and annoyed at his inability to act.

So he just drives.

It doesn’t even matter that he has no destination in mind. All he knows is that he needs to keep driving until the pressure in his chest eases.

It goes on like that for god knows how long until he notices that the inside of his car has gotten a little too warm and stifling. Then his vision starts to blur. Before he knows it, he’s pulling over, getting out of his car, and dry heaving on the side of the road.

Auston left his jacket inside, and there’s only two thin layers on his person, but the bite of the cold December air is a relief, and for a long while all he could do is lean against his car and wait for the beating of his heart to slow. It seems like an eternity before the pain in his chest finally subsides and the ringing in his ear disappears completely. 

He stays there until he loses all feeling in both his hands, his nose is red and dripping and his face starts to sting.

When he gets back inside the car and starts to drive, it takes him a while to place where he is. A huge chunk of the city still seem to him unfamiliar, but once he drives past a familiar avenue, he has no trouble finding his way home.

**x**

Auston is woken up from his nap by a sharp prick of what he can only describe as “sorrow.” He’s not sure he understands what sorrow really means or whether he’s actually felt it before, but he is certain that it is what he feels now. It settles unpleasantly in his chest for a moment before disappearing completely.

He no longer considers these stray feelings strangers, because he knows precisely where they’re coming from, and from who. These past couple of weeks he has learned to anticipate them, prepare for them, and on some days even ignore them. But when he feels Mitch now, it’s all he can do not to worry. 

On Mitch’s blog, he finds this entry:

 

> **ENTRY #63**
> 
> Dear AM,
> 
> Let me preface this by saying I’m so sorry, and that it didn’t mean anything. I promise. It was actually really _really_ gross, but I was feeling down and I was hurting everywhere and I didn’t mean to do it but I felt like I had to do it because I didn’t want to die not knowing what it’s like to be kissed—so I asked Dylan to kiss me. If it makes you feel any better, he didn’t want to do it either and there was very little tongue involved. Then I cried for the next thirty minutes, stopped, then cried all over again because you were supposed to be it, you know, my first. You were supposed to find me and fall in love with me and prove to me that all this suffering and waiting actually meant something but you’re not even here and I really hated you for a while. But then I realized that I was being unfair to you because it isn’t your fault you’re not here. I guess it’s just not our time yet. Maybe there’s a lifetime where we can be together, and I wish that’s where I’m headed when I go. For now I hope you find someone you can kiss, even if it’s not me, because everyone deserves to be kissed.
> 
> Still yours,
> 
> MM
> 
> _P.S. I don’t hate you. Not really. Not ever._

There's a crucial point in every hockey game when you just go with what you’ve got—or you don’t go. Reading the entry, Auston gets this unmistakable feeling that if doesn’t take his chance now, he will never again see Mitch.

At that moment he realizes there really has been no point making Mitch wait, and he curses himself all the way to his car. 

When he inputs the address on the GPS, he feels his chest tighten again: Mitch lives not twenty minutes away, in an area he drives past almost daily. All this time he’s been so near.

Well, none of that matters now, he tells himself, and then starts to drive.

**x**

The house sits on a quiet part of the neighborhood, secluded among the elm and maple trees whose leaves have long dried and fallen on the ground. The house itself is a white, two-story residence redolent of home-cooked meals and an upper-middle class income, with its gabled roof, charming porch, manicured lawn, and picture windows. On the driveway, a lone SUV is parked.

Auston climbs out of his car before he can talk himself out of it and walks the short path leading to the front door. Once there, he takes a deep breath and rings the bell.

The person who answers the door is a cute but rather goofy-looking guy who’s about the same height as Auston. It takes him a while to place Auston’s face, but when he does, his eyes widen almost comically. 

“Um, hi,” says Auston. “You must be Chris.”

The guy blinks at him. “No,” he says slowly.

“Oh.” Auston has a mind to ask who he is, but seeing as he’s the visitor in this scenario, he decides against it. “I, uh, I’m here to see Mitch. Is he here?”

“Yes,” the guy says equally slowly.

“May I see him?”

“Maybe.”

Auston furrows his brows at this, then thinks maybe it’s because he hasn’t introduced himself yet. “I’m Auston,” he says, proffering his hand. “Matthews.” He doesn’t know why he felt compelled to add that in, but what the hell.

The guy shakes it almost reluctantly. “Yeah,” he says. “I kinda figured.”

He doesn’t say anything after that, just stares at Auston with curious eyes, which is a little unsettling, to be honest. Then he just shrugs.

“Marns!” the guy calls out over his shoulder. “Someone’s here to see you!” He steps aside and opens the door winder. “Come in, I guess.”

Auston shrugs out of his jacket and stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room, feeling so unsure of his presence there. Meanwhile, the guy who still hasn’t introduced himself studies Auston like he’s a piece of art whose appeal he’s still trying to figure out. Auston turns from him and studies instead the framed photographs on the mantelpiece: a vacation on some tropical island some years ago, Mitch at eight or seven in full hockey gear, Mitch’s brother toothless and dirty, Mitch’s parents at their wedding—all of it images of a blissful family life.

Auston finds himself momentarily lost in those photographs so when he finally hears the soft, approaching footfalls, he is suddenly gripped with a sense of dread so strong that his hands starts to sweat. When Mitch finally walks into the room, Auston’s heart skips a beat.

Mitch stops in his tracks when his eyes land on Auston. 

Auston doesn’t know whether the surprise he suddenly feels is his or Mitch’s, doesn’t know whether the delight that washes over him is his own emotion or a projection of Mitch’s. 

For a moment, no one in the room speaks—not Auston, not Mitch, not the weird guy looking back and forth between Auston and Mitch.

Auston should have had a speech prepared, an explanation as to why he’s there in the first place, because blurting out “I’m your soulmate” doesn’t feel right. On the drive over, he figured something will come to him; if he threw himself into the deep end, he’d have to learn how to swim. Now he’s drowning.

Thankfully it’s Mitch who breaks the silence. “God, I love my mom.”

“Huh?” says the weird dude, making a confused expression, which probably mirrors Auston’s.

“This was her idea, right?” Mitch tells Auston, and then turns to his…friend, cousin, houseboy? “She’s been saying that she has this big surprise for me but I haven’t figured it out. Until now. I didn’t know it would be this, though. I mean, why else would you be here, right?” It sounds to Auston as if Mitch really wants to know the answer, but it takes him a second too long to respond, which Mitch takes as a cue to continue. “Anyway, hi, I’m Mitch. Huge fan.”

When Auston takes Mitch’s extended hand in his, that weird itch in the inside of his wrist stirs. He doesn’t know if Mitch feels it, too, but if he does, he doesn’t show it, or say anything about it. 

Reluctantly, Auston draws his hand away, then sits on the couch where Mitch leads him.

“Dylan,” says Mitch in an overly sweet way, “would you please be dear and fetch our guest something to drink?”

_Dylan_.

Auston whips his head toward him, and then something deep inside him growls. 

“Get it yourself, Mitchell,” Dylan spits out. “I’m not your maid.”

Mitch clutches at his heart, feigning affront. “Unbelievable,” he says, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “The disrespect for a dying man’s wish.”

“You have to stop throwing that around, you know?” Dylan says, throwing him an annoyed look. “That’s actually not funny.” Then he sighs and turns to Auston. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Just water, thanks.”

Dylan gets up from the couch.

“Oh,” says Mitch, “and can you make me some ginger tea, too? With lotsa honey?”

Dylan rolls his eyes. “Ugh, fine.”

“You’re a darling,” says Mitch, beaming up at him.

Dylan waves his hand in a dismissive gesture as he retreats to the direction of the kitchen. Once he’s out of the room, Mitch turns to Auston.

“So,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “tell me the truth: on a scale of one to hell no, how much do you actually enjoy these things?” At Auston’s puzzled expression, Mitch adds, “you know, these charity stuff the management is forcing you to do?”

_Tell him, you idiot!_ says the voice in his head, which sounds a lot like Babcock’s. 

“I…I don’t mind,” he says instead.

“You sure? Because you look like you want to bolt.”

“No,” says Auston. “I want to be here. Really.” That much, at least, is true.

“I get it,” says Mitch, nodding like he suddenly realized something. “It’s me, right? I probably look like death. A lot of people can’t even stand to look at me these days. I could have at least put on something nicer, but I didn’t know Auston Matthews would be showing up.”

“No, you’re…perfect.” Auston blushes a bright shade of red as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Mitch is skinnier than in the photos he has uploaded on the blog, and there aredeep dark circles under his eyes, but Auston likes this Mitch better, because he’s real and he’s tangible, breathing and smiling despite everything.

Auston clears his throat. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not really a huge talker. I don’t even know what to say on a normal day.”

Mitch grins at him, a toothy grin that does weird things to Auston’s heart and stomach. 

“It’s cool,” says Mitch. “So how do these things actually work?”

Auston is at a loss for words. He should have thought it through when he decided to participate in this charade.

“Actually,” Mitch says all of a sudden, interrupting Auston’s train of thought. “You know what? I wanna go for a walk. It’s been a while, and the weather’s kinda nice. I’ll regale you with my whole life story and then after you can lavish me some encouraging words. Be right back.”

Patting Auston’s knee, Mitch gets up from the couch and quickly—or as quickly as his languid movements could allow—leaves the room. Burying his face in his hands, Auston groans in despair. This isn’t how he pictured it going at all. 

When Mitch reemerges moments later, he’s wearing a pair of gloves, a beanie, a turtleneck sweater, and a duffle coat on top of it. It makes him look oddly like a baby penguin, all bundled up like that; he certainly does walk like one. The whole picture makes the corners of Auston’s mouth tug up.

Mitch is winding a scarf around his neck when Dylan reappears in the living room. He’s carrying a bottle of water in one hand and Mitch’s tea in the other.

“Hey, we’re just gonna go for a walk, okay?” Mitch says when he sees him.

“It’s freezing out. Weren’t you just complaining that you were achey a few hours ago?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m all rested now. Send out a search party if we aren’t back in an hour.”

“An hour? No. You have thirty minutes.”

“Fuck you, Strome, you’re not my mother.”

“Test me, Mitchell, and I will call your mother.”

“Fifty minutes.”

“Forty.”

“Forty five!”

“Fine.”

“God, I hate you.”

“Wait,” says Dylan, then promptly disappears. A moment later he returns with athermos that he pushes toward Auston. “This’ll keep him warm.” He turns to Mitch with a serious look on his face. “Be back by five, okay? I’m serious, Mitch.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The sky outside is marred by patches of grey and low-riding clouds, but occasionally the sun would peek from behind them and give out a significant amount of sunlight, which makes their stroll a little more bearable.

Auston follows Mitch’s lead through the quiet neighborhood. Mitch does most of the talking. The stuff he talks about—these are things Auston already knows from the entries he’s read. Auston tries not to feel too guilty about letting Mitch talk because it’s obvious that the simple act is taking a lot out of him, but Auston likes to hear Mitch’s voice, likes its tone and timbre, likes even his Canadian accent, so he lets him speak. Auston would even prompt Mitch with questions the answers to which he already knows just so he would keep talking. 

It’s okay to be selfish just this once, Auston convinces himself.

This gratifying feeling doesn’t last, though, because as Auston soon learns, Mitch has trouble maintaining a thread of thought and sticking with it. He would talk about one thing and then all of a sudden digress, go on a tangent. Mitch would also ask a question, and then a few sentences later, he would ask the same question again, only worded differently. At first Auston thinks Mitch is pulling his leg, testing him if he’s actually listening, but he’s not.

Auston remembers reading once about what is colloquially known as “chemo brain,” how people who were once punctual became tardy after chemo. People who were organized became neglectful. People who were once positive and optimistic become irritable and grouchy. It’s because chemo quite literally scrambles the brain, affects that part responsible for retaining short term memory. And then there are those who, even successfully going into remission, never quite recover the full function of their brains. 

The most heartbreaking thing about the whole thing is that Mitch isn’t even aware he’s doing it at all. 

Auston doesn’t know why it’s taken him this long to realize it, that Mitch is really sick. He’s really very sick.

The third time Mitch does it, ask the same question with this honest to god sincere expression on his face, Auston has to bite the inside of his cheek or else he would choke out a sob.

A nagging thought occurs to Auston then: all those entries on Mitch’s blog, the letters he’s been writing without flagging—each one of them must have involved real pain and effort and struggle, just to put down one coherent sentence after another, and yet he still writes them. 

All of it for Auston.

He’s never been a huge crier, Auston, but at that moment he never wants anything more than to have a private space in which he could just let it all out. Instead he breathes through his nose and out his mouth and try not to cry.

They end up in a park a couple of blocks from Mitch’s house, and to get there they had to hike an inclined path lined with rocks and grass and leafless trees on one side and a chainlink fence on the other. Mitch is thoroughly winded by the time they get there, and he immediately sinks down on the closest surface he can find, which happens to be a swing seat.

The other seat is vacant, but it’s too tiny for Auston to occupy so he just leans against the swing set’s steel frame.

Mitch looks up at Auston. “Sorry,” he says, his face scrunched up with exertion.

“We could have just stayed inside,” he says, guilty.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Mitch says. “Dylan would have just hovered anxiously in the background. Sometimes he’s worse than mom.”

Auston crosses his arms in annoyance. _Dylan_. “What’s up with him anyway?”

Mitch frowns a little bit. “He wasn’t always like that,” he says. “I think I broke him or something. I used to think that the worst part about having cancer is the chemo, but it’s actually seeing the people I love slowly wither away. They’re being broken by my disease and there’s nothing I can do about it. They think they’re doing a good job at hiding it but I see it. Every day I see it in their eyes.”

For a moment, Auston thinks that Mitch is going to cry, but then he’s smiling up at him. “Okay, so I’ve been yapping on about myself for a while now and I’m kind of sick of it. Tell me about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, for one, do you actually like being a Leaf?” There’s a glint of amusement in Mitch’s eyes. “Because I saw the interviews after you were drafted, and you don’t look all that enthused.”

Auston cracks a smile at that. “If you haven’t noticed by now, this is basically my default expression, so you can’t really blame me for that, can you?”

“I guess not,” says Mitch, smiling.

Auston tries to answer Mitch’s questions as best as he can. Thankfully most of them have to do with hockey and being a Leaf. If Mitch still has any lingering resentment about his hockey past, he doesn’t show any trace of it.

When the beginnings of twilight start to show, Auston tells Mitch that they should probably head back. 

“You’re right,” says Mitch. “I wouldn’t put it past Dylan to actually call mom.”

“Where are they, by the way, your parents?”

“They had to go settle some stuff with my insurance company.” 

A pained expression crosses Mitch’s face as he stands up from the swing, and it occurs to Auston right then that he can’t just let Mitch walk all the way back on foot. That’s just cruel.

So he drops down on one knee and presents his back to Mitch. “Hop on,” he says over his shoulder.

There’s a split second when Mitch just stands there motionless, but then his face splits into a grin and he climbs on Auston’s back, throwing his skinny arms around Auston’s neck. 

“This is going to kill your back,” says Mitch. “Babcock will have my head if he knew.”

Auston snorts as he hooks his arms under Mitch’s thighs and rises to his feet. “You’re not as heavy as you think you are.”

“Is this part of the whole charity thing, too?” Mitch asks lightheartedly as they start to leave the park. “Because if it is I kinda see the appeal. Kids would love this.”

It takes Auston a while to reply, but only because he can no longer find it in himself to lie—not about this, not anymore. 

“I’m not actually here for that,” he says, strangely relieved that he can’t see Mitch’s face. “I’m not here in any official capacity. I came because I found your blog and I…I think I’m your soulmate. I believe I’m your soulmate.”

Mitch is quiet for a short while, and then Auston feels him sigh against his neck.

“God, I thought you’d never say it.”

Auston stops and turns his head, surprised to find Mitch’s face so close to his. “You knew?” he says incredulously. “Have you known all this time?”

“Not at first,” he says, shaking his head. “I had my suspicions. Dylan said I was delusional for even considering that you might be my soulmate, but then I saw you at the game and the dots start connecting themselves. I wasn’t sure until you showed up at my house.”

Auston starts walking again. “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I was giving you an out,” says Mitch. “I didn’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to be with a defect like me. I know I’m not exactly the person you dreamed of ever ending up with. I figured maybe if you didn’t like what you saw, at the end of the day you’d just walk away. I would have understood.”

Auston shakes his head, suddenly feeling indignant that Mitch would think he’d just walk away.

“I’d rather have you as you are now than be with someone with a perfectly clean bill of health.” Auston doesn’t know how much he means it until the words are out of his mouth.

Auston feels Mitch smile more than he sees it, and then the arms around his neck tightens as Mitch presses his body closer to Auston's.

“I kinda feel silly now because you’ve read the blog and you know all these things about me but I’ve only watched a couple of your interviews.”

Auston turns to him with an unimpressed look on his face. “A couple?” Auston says, one eyebrow quirked. For some reason, he’s certain 110% that Mitch is lying through his teeth. He just _knows_ it.

The smile Mitch gives him is blinding. “Fine,” he says. “I've watched and read everything I could get my hands on. Happy?”

Auston smiles at him and then nods.

Neither of them speak for a long while, both content to just bask in the comfortable silence enveloping them like a warm blanket, but when Mitch’s house finally comes into view, Auston knows that he has to say it.

“I’m sorry it took me a while,” he says.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do,” says Auston adamantly. “I should have been here sooner.”

“But you’re here now,” Mitch says, pressing his cheek against Auston’s.

Auston finds himself returning the gesture, seeking Mitch’s warmth. “I’m here now.”

“And you’re not going away, right?”

“Never.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, suggestions, violent reactions? Let me know! Hearing from you guys is one of the best things about writing this story.


	5. Amongst Your Cold Sheets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! I hope you guys enjoy this one.
> 
> (P.S. I edited this at 4am with barely any sleep in me, so I apologize for errors in grammar and formatting)

The first time Auston comes to one of Mitch’s appointments, he’s so ill at ease that his leg would not stop bouncing. It seems like an okay enough place, the waiting room of the oncology ward: the nurses are pleasant, it’s uncrowded, warm, brightly lit with enough sunlight streaming through its huge glass windows. The whole place is also decked with Christmas decorations, and a soft Christmas carol is playing from the speakers.

Christmas.

Auston has almost forgotten that it’s coming in a week, but between their games and Mitch he hardly has any time to think of anything else. He hasn’t even picked out presents for his family yet, which he makes a mental note to do before he leaves for their pre-Christmas break road trip tomorrow. 

Speaking of presents, he also needs to think of one for Mitch, something he has been having troubles with. He remembers a conversation they had a few days ago: 

He asked Mitch, in an effort to extract some valuable information, if he’s ever made a personal bucket list, things he wanted to experience before he…well, Auston couldn’t even finish the sentence because he has sworn never to utter the D word, but Mitch knew what he was getting at and simply said, “no.”

“Why not?” Auston asked.

“I don’t need to do anything monumental to feel like I’ve lived,” Mitch replied. “I mean, it would be nice to go bungee jumping or something but I’m pretty realistic. I can’t even go upstairs without gasping for hair. Besides, I already missed out on a lot of normal, everyday stuff, so I’d rather do those than go shark swimming in the coast of South Africa.”

That wasn’t very illuminating. Maybe he’ll ask Dylan for help, or Bonnie.

Where is she anyway? She said she was going to speak with the nurses but she hasn’t returned yet. And what’s taking so damn long? They should be inside one of these rooms by now, but they’re not and he really—

“Hey,” says Mitch, placing a hand on Auston’s thigh. “You okay there?”

“Hospitals suck, man.”

Mitch chuckles. “You don’t have to come inside if you don’t feel like it. I’ve done this a million times. I think I'm gonna be fine.”

“No.” Auston shakes his head. “I promised I’m gonna be there every step of the way and I mean it.”

Mitch rests his head on Auston’s shoulder and clings to his arm like a human koala. “Do you want me to walk you through the process so you can mentally prepare yourself?”

“Sure,” Auston mumbles against Mitch’s hair.

“You aren’t afraid of needles, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Blood?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Good, because there’s gonna be a lot of those,” he says, and then starts explaining to Auston how, first, they’re going to draw blood to check his hemoglobin count, his platelet count, and some other shit Auston’s not really paying attention to because being able to touch Mitch like this hasn’t worn off its novelty yet, and Auston’s going to relish every minute of it, even if it’s in this waiting room that reeks of disinfectant and death.

When Bonnie finds them like that a minute or two later, her face breaks out into a huge toothy grin that reminds Auston of Mitch’s, then she tells them not to move as she whips out her iPhone to take a photo. Auston doesn’t know how to react, but Mitch gamely smiles for the camera.

Auston is still pretty weird around her. At the back of his mind he still feels like an intruder in their family. He was actually reluctant to tell Mitch’s parents about the two of them precisely because of this reason, but when Mitch announced it at dinner, the night Auston ambushed him and Dylan, she wept and wrapped him in a hug. Paul, on the other hand, just clapped him on the back and told him “welcome to the family, kid.” Since then they’ve acted as if he’s been a part of their family for a long time.

A few minutes pass and finally they are being ushered into a private room by one of the nurses who then proceeds to draw blood from Mitch’s port. Once the procedure is done, the nurse leaves the room to run the blood work.

Mitch leaves the buttons of his shirt undone, and for the first time Auston sees his chest in the flesh. On his left pectoral is Auston’s initials, and on his right the port, both equidistant from each other, and both almost the same size: the two constants in Mitch’s life, it seems.

Mitch catches him staring. “Like what you see?” he says, quirking his eyebrows. He was going for “seductive” but completely misses his mark. Auston smiles at that despite himself. This boy is going to be the end of him, and he can’t even get himself to care.

“Gosh, you’re exactly like your dad,” says Bonnie.

Mitch snorts. “Please. My jokes are way funnier.”

When Mitch’s doctor (“Edward Zimmer,” his name tag says) finally enters the room, Auston straightens up in his seat. He’s a tall middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper hair and he greets them with a kind smile.

“What’s up, doc?” says Mitch from his infusion chair.

“Hey, buddy,” he says as he takes his seat. When he sees Auston there, he smilesaffably at him, too. “And who’s this handsome fellow?”

“He’s Mitch’s boyfriend,” says Bonnie with a proud smile on her face. “He plays for the _Leafs_.”

A flash of recognition crosses his face. “Oh, that’s right,” he says, extending his hand. “I’ve been to a couple of games. It’s quite a season you’re having. Good job.”

Auston shakes his hand, and for a moment, he thinks he sees pity in his eyes, but maybe he’s just imagining it.

“All right, buddy,” Dr. Zimmer says, turning back to Mitch. “How are you feeling?”

Mitch scrunches up his eyebrows as he tries to recall. “Less nauseous over the last couple weeks but definitely more fatigued. There’s other stuff too like this crawling feeling in my legs, and my heart would start to race every time I stand up but then it would settle when I lie down. And I’ve been having these really weird cravings lately that aren’t exactly food, like sometimes I feel like eating dirt and soil and twigs.”

Dr. Zimmer nods as he listens, periodically glancing down at the file he brought with him. As it turns out, Mitch’s red cell count has been really low, hence all these symptoms, so Dr. Zimmer’s ordering a blood transfusion today before the chemo. 

“I’m also upping your steroids a little bit for future infusions, just to make sure we can manage all these side effects you’re having with Cytarabine.”

Bonnie is typing out notes on her iPhone, and Auston wonders briefly if maybe he should do the same.

“So how is he in general, doc?” Bonnie asks.

“Well,” he says, consulting Mitch’s records again. “His platelets could be better, but they’re holding so that’s good. His immune system seems to be holding its own as well, but I’m gonna have him start wearing a mask whenever he’s out because we don’t want a repeat performance of the pneumonia. I’d also suggest avoiding crowded places at this stage because the risk of an infection is too high. Other than that, everything seems to going as expected.”

_You mean he’s slowly dying and you’re just watching it happen_ , Auston thinks, bristling at Dr. Zimmer’s resigned tone, as if he already considers Mitch’s case a lost cause. At that moment he wants nothing more than to deck him in the face.

Mitch must have felt his anger, because he reaches out and places his hand over Auston’s balled fist. Auston sighs and lets Mitch link their fingers together.

After that Dr. Zimmer checks Mitch’s blood pressure, pulse, and temperature to prepare him for the transfusion, which lasts upwards of three hours, he says. After the transfusion comes the chemo, which takes another two hours at least.

Once the IV is placed in Mitch’s port, Dr. Zimmer schedules Mitch’s next appointment a week after New Year’s, writes a prescription that he hands to Bonnie, and then asks the room at large if they have any more questions.

“One more thing,” says Bonnie, a serious expression on her face. “Can they have sex?”

“Mom!”

“What?” Bonnie shrugs. “It’s important that you guys know these things. It’s better to be safe.”

Dr. Zimmer chuckles at this. “I agree with your mom on this, Mitch,” he says.“Intercourse is fine as energy and comfort levels allow, of course. Kissing, cuddling, touching—go for it. However, if you’re going to engage in oral sex, you must use a condom at least 48 hours after treatment, as chemo can be excreted in the semen. As for anal sex, I would suggest doing it only if you’re receiving”—he points at Auston, who blushes an embarrassing shade of red—“and of course, use protection.” And with that, he says his goodbyes and exits the room.

“See, honey? Aren’t you glad I asked?”

“ _No_ ,” says Mitch, blushing. “You’re so embarrassing.”

“You’ll thank me later,” she says, patting Mitch’s knee. Then she leaves them to ask one of the nurses for an extra blanket.

“Sorry about her,” Mitch says.

“It’s all right,” says Auston, stroking Mitch’s chin. “We’ll figure it out when you don’t feel so shitty anymore.”

“Yeah?” The look Mitch gives him is so hopeful, as if sex is the last thing Auston wants to do with him.

Auston nods.

They are going to be there for a while, so Auston turns on the TV and they watch episodes of BoJack Horseman until Mitch’s eyes flutter shut. At one point Bonnie checks up on them and asks Auston if he wants a snack. He tells her thank you but he isn’t hungry.

Mitch sleeps until another nurse comes in and replaces the now-empty blood bag and replaces it with another one, this time it contains a clear liquid. On the bag is a yellow label that says, “CAUTION: CHEMOTHERAPY. Cyclophosphamide (CYTOXAN LYOPHILIZED) Handle with gloves. Dispose of properly.” Then beneath that: “Marner, Mitchell (05/05/1997)” and a bunch of details Auston only vaguely recognizes.

“I’m thirsty,” Mitch mumbles a few minutes into his infusion, and before Bonnie can get up from her seat, Auston offers to get it. Mitch asks for a grape Gatorade, and Auston squeezes his hand and then leaves the room.

At the hospital cafeteria Auston buys two bottles of Gatorade and a banana he finishes in three bites. On his way back he finds a Purell dispenser mounted on the corridor, and he squeezes some on his palm and rubs it all over his hands until they’re dry. He makes another mental note to buy one of those tiny hand sanitizers you can bring everywhere with you.

When he returns to Mitch’s room, he twists open the cap of the Gatorade bottle, puts a plastic straw he filched from the cafeteria in it, and hands it to Mitch. When Mitch gets his fill, he leans back on the chair and gives the bottle it back to Auston.

“Thanks, Dyl,” says Mitch, then turns his attention back to the TV.

Auston freezes.

“It’s Auston, honey,” Bonnie says with a soft voice, placing his hand on top of her son’s. “Dylan’s in school.”

“No, he isn’t. He’s right here—” Mitch pauses when his eyes meet Auston’s. “Oh.” 

For a few seconds Mitch just blinks at him, and Auston wonders if Mitch has somehow forgotten who he is, if he even remembers him at all. 

A pained expression crosses Mitch’s face. 

“ _Shit_. I…I thought…” Mitch’s chin starts to quiver, his eyes welling up.

“Hey, it’s all right, take it easy,” says Auston, carding his fingers through Mitch’s hair. 

Mitch is pretty miserable after that, and his misery is only compounded by the chemo being fed into his veins. Auston feels it, too, the chemo. It flows and ebbs and starts again. He wonders if it’s because he’s so physically near his soulmate that he feels it so strongly: It’s like he has a flu and a hangover and food poisoning all at the same time, and it’s all he can do not to throw up in the waste basket by his feet. 

Auston endures it as stoically as he can, trying not to let it show on his face because what he’s feeling isn’t even half of what Mitch is going through right now. So he continues stroking Mitch’s hair until he drifts off to sleep. 

It’s early evening by the time they leave the hospital, and Mitch falls asleep the whole ride home. Mitch stirs when Auston carries him inside but doesn’t wake, even as Auston tucks him in bed.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Bonnie asks as she walks him to the front door.

Auston nods. “I have to run some errands before we leave tomorrow.”

Bonnie reaches out to cup Auston’s face in her hand. “I really appreciate you coming with us today,” she says, a soft smile on her face. “It really means a lot to Mitch, and to Paul and me, of course. You’re always going to be welcome in our house, okay?”

Once all his bags are packed, Auston spends the rest of his evening on Amazon buying Christmas presents for his family, which includes a ridiculously expensive camera for Breyana, gift cards from Sephora for Alexandria, a DeWalt tool set for his dad, and a velour robe for his mom. He also buys some of his favorite cousins presents, and when he proceeds to checkout, the subtotal is a little under a thousand dollars. Auston has never been a spendthrift; growing up seeing his mom work two jobs so they could pay for his hockey taught him the value of money. But then again, he likes to spoil the people he loves, and since he can afford it now, he just shrugs and pays for all of it. While he’s at it, he gets Paul and Bonnie a Christmas present, too. And Dylan, some video games Auston thinks he’d like. 

Auston is figuring out the logistics of it all when his phone pings beside him. When he glances at it, he sees a text from Mitch.

“u didnt wake me up :(” it says.

“But you looked like an angel,” Auston sends Mitch.

“wanted to say bye before u left,” Mitch replies, and even without his puppy eyes staring up at him, Auston can feel the sadness of it. 

Over the past week Mitch has been particularly clingy. Every time Auston has to leave, Mitch would implore him to stay, just a little while longer, as if he’s expecting him never again to return. Of course Auston hates leaving Mitch’s side, but he also has hockey to play. He never thought there would ever come a time when he’d resent hockey, but since being with Mitch he has come close a couple of times.

“I’ll be back before Christmas and then we’ll have 3 whole days together,” Auston texts back.

“thats too long a wait :’( :’( :’(” 

Auston grabs his earphones from the bedside table, plugs it into his phone, and calls Mitch. “You should be resting,” he says before Mitch can say anything.

“I know that but I just spent the last ten minutes throwing up and now I can’t fall back to sleep.”

Auston can hear the misery in his voice, and he just aches for him. “Are you drinking fluids?” he asks.

“Yeah. I have a bottle of water right here.”

“Good, keep drinking that. Did you take a Zantac yet?”

“No.”

“The Compazine?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Too lazy to get up, and I’m gonna throw them back up anyway, so what’s the point?”

“Jesus, Mitch,” Auston hisses, “they’re by your bed. I don’t care if you’re going to throw them up. Take them now.”

Mitch groans. “All right, fine,” he says. “Do you want proof?” 

“No, I trust you.”

Auston hears movement on the other end of the line, and a few seconds later Mitch speaks again. “It’s done,” he says petulantly. “God, you’ve turned into them. I thought you were on my side.”

Auston doesn’t have to ask who “them” is. “We’re all on your side. You just don’t see it because you’re such an annoying little shit sometimes.”

Mitch chuckles at this. “That I am,” he says, then pauses. “Wish you were here.”

“Me too,” says Auston. “Try not to miss me too much, yeah?”

“Can’t,” says Mitch in matter-of-fact tone. “I’ve been missing you since I was five. I don’t think that’s gonna stop now.”

“We can Skype or FaceTime or whatever,” he says. “You can even send me Snaps if you like.”

“Oh, boy, you’re gonna regret saying that. I’m going to send you so many Snaps your phone’s gonna crash.”

“I’d be disappointed if it didn’t.”

Mitch’s voice is a little sluggish, so Auston takes it upon himself to drive most of the conversation, talking about everything he could think of—the friends he’s made in Zurich, getting lost in the Paris metro once, receiving his first NHL paycheck, but he finds himself mostly talking about his family, about his mom’s cooking, how annoying his sisters can sometimes be, the old Bronco his dad’s trying to restore for some years now.

“I’d love to meet them someday,” Mitch says. “Do you think they’d like me?”

“They already do. The last time I talked to my mom she won’t stop nagging me about why I haven’t introduced you to them yet.”

“We could make it happen,” says Mitch, “a meet the family sorta thing. I’d really like that.”

Before long Auston realizes that Mitch has gone quiet on the other line, his breaths having grown deep and rhythmic, and yet he can’t get himself to stop talking. It feels almost too silly to go on like that, having a conversation on his own, but he wants to prove to Mitch that he’s right there with him, that he’s always going to be there with him, even in his sleep.

**x**

As promised, Mitch does send him Snaps. A plethora of Snaps, actually. Auston’s phone starts blowing up with notifications the moment he turns the Airplane Mode off while they taxi into Tampa International Airport. Some of them are pictures of Winston (snuggling with him on the bed), Burbank (sitting on his lap), Bonnie (making lunch in the kitchen), and a photo of snowfall seen from his bedroom window. But most of them are Mitch’s selfies with his tongue sticking out of his mouth.

Auston screenshots some of them. Then he takes one of his own, a selfie of him looking so unimpressed with their having finally landed in Tampa, and sends it to Mitch.

“what a stud,” Mitch’s reply says, accompanied by a selfie of him smiling with the flower crown filter on.

Chuckling, Auston sends him another one, this time with a filter that makes him look like a chola had a baby with a drag queen. “Hot enough for U?” the caption says.

Bozie guffaws beside him. “You should make that your Twitter photo,” he says, “brings out your beautiful features.”

“Still makes me look better than you.”

A few seconds later Mitch replies. “Light of my life, fire of my loins,” he says, followed by three fire emojis.

“Aww,” says Bozie, looking at Auston’s phone. “Young love. How sweet.”

Auston doesn’t know how it’s possible to miss Mitch this much when they’ve known each other not even two weeks, but sometimes it literally, physically pains him when he’s not with him. It’s maddening.

“Does it get any easier?” Auston asks Bozie, trusting that he knows what he’s talking about.

“Never,” he replies. “It sucks every time. Sometimes it feels like you’re going crazy, right?”

Auston nods, instinctively running his thumb along his mark. It occurs to him then that some of the guys on the team have been doing this for a long time, leaving not only their soulmates back home but their children as well, and he wonders how they could bear it, the separation. Suddenly he feels this newfound appreciation for them.

“So what do you do when it gets hard?” 

“These days I don’t fight it anymore,” he says, shrugging. “I just stop whatever I’m doing and feel it. I concentrate on it. Maybe I’m a masochist for doing it, but when you’re in the middle of it you appreciate every little thing about them, even the things that usually drives you mad. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up in the middle of the night craving for the sound of Kanon wailing. But it makes being with them again more meaningful. It sounds corny, but that’s how it is.” Bozie leans forward then, nudging Auston with his shoulder. “You know what the best part about the whole leaving thing is? The sex. I’m telling you, man. I don’t even know what happens to Molly when I’m gone, but once I’m back she’s like a woman possessed. The longest we’ve lasted is four hours straight, no stopping. I’m not complaining, though. Some of the best sex of my life happened right after a roadie.”

A flush creeps across Auston’s cheeks. Thankfully Bozie moves on to a different subject. “So how’s your boy?” he asks, cocking his head at Auston’s phone. “Everything okay, I presume?”

“Yeah,” says Auston. “We’re great. I can’t think of anything to give him for Christmas, though.”

“How come?”

“I want to make it special,” _because it’s going to be our last Christmas together_ , he doesn’t say, although it’s obviously there, “but he isn’t very keen on grand gestures so I keep drawing up a blank.”

“Take him out on a date,” says Bozie, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Just because he’s your soulmate doesn’t mean you get to skip the whole dating thing. Getting to know them, that’s the best part about finding _the_ _one_. Treat your boy to a dinner and a movie or something. You can’t go wrong with that.”

Auston rolls this idea in his head. “That’s…actually not a bad idea.”

“And if you want to go all out, you can bring him to meet the team when we get back. I mean, he’s a Leafs fan and we’d all love to meet him after all this time.”

That’s probably true, too.

When the whole team found out about Mitch and him—thanks to ENTRY #64—Auston was greeted in the locker room with confetti cannons going off and a cacophony of congratulatory cheers. They were all patting him on the back for finally having come to his senses about Mitch, and they kept saying it was about time he met the whole team. Auston remembers trying to be annoyed at the whole spectacle, but right then all he felt was a deep affection for his team.

“You guys would do that?”

“For sure, man,” says Bozie as they stand to collect their bags from the luggage compartment. “We got your back. Let me talk to the guys.”

“I…thanks. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t sweat it. Consider it your Christmas present from us.”

**x**

That week the Leafs win against the Lightning 3–2, lose against the Stars 5–1, and win against the Coyotes 2–1 in an overtime, and that night after their game, Auston takes his whole family to dinner so he could get them all in one place and talk to them.

“About what?” his dad asks. “You look so serious over there.”

“It’s about Mitch.”

“Oh, Papi, is he okay?” his mom asks, concern written all over her face.

Auston knows that she means well, but he kind of hates how people jump to the worst conclusions whenever he brings Mitch up. 

“He’s fine,” he says. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about Christmas, actually. I know we have this tradition of spending it at home with Nana, but I was hoping that you’d come spend it with me in Toronto instead and meet Mitch’s family. I’m planning to surprise Mitch and I already talked to his mom about it and she said it would be great if we could all celebrate it together. I know Alex is starting her new job and she has to go back to work the day after and dad’s pretty busy, but it would really mean a lot to me if you guys would come.”

Auston glances around the table to gauge everyone’s reaction. 

Alexandria shrugs. “You don’t have to worry about me. I can make it work. I don’t know about dad, though. You know how he is.”

“Wow,” his dad says, feigning disbelief. “I’m being thrown under the bus by my own daughter now.”

“She has a point, though,” Auston’s mom says. “You work like crazy. We hardly see you anymore.”

“I want a house by a lake,” he says, “and I still have a few years until retirement to make that happen. I might as well make the most of out it.” Then he turns to Auston. “But I can take a few days off for Christmas, then your mom and I can do some sightseeing while we’re there, right, love?”

Auston’s mom smiles. “It’s gonna be a little cold, but that’s all right. A change of pace is good sometimes.”

“What about me?” asks Breyana. “Aren’t you gonna ask me for my input?”

Auston snorts. “Your input doesn’t matter. It’s either you come or you don’t get that thing you’ve been asking me for.”

Her eyes light up. “Fine,” she says, smiling. “So where are we staying?”

“I—I haven’t planned that far ahead actually,” he says sheepishly. “But you guys can stay at my place. I mean, it’s gonna be a little cramped with all of us there but I won’t mind.”

Auston’s dad shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo. I got it covered.”

Auston smiles, speechless. Sometimes he just forgets that he really has an amazing family. “Thanks,” he says.

“So now that’s settled, is there anything we need to know about Mitch’s family?” his mom asks. “I can’t imagine what they must be going through right now, and I don’t want any of us to blunder in front of them in their own home.”

For the rest of dinner, Auston gives them pointers on how to deal with Mitch and his condition, explains to them which subjects are better left undiscussed, which, thankfully aren’t a lot. On the whole, the Marners are a pretty open family; they may not like the subject of death, but they won’t shy away from it or pretend it doesn’t exist. 

After dinner they drive Auston back to the hotel where the team is staying, and as they all say their goodbyes, Auston hugs each of them a little tighter.

“You’re good boy. I’m so proud of you,” his mom says as she wraps her arms around him. “I’ll see you in two days.”

**x**

It’s late when they get back to Toronto. They were supposed to leave Arizona at four in the afternoon, but their plane had encountered some mechanical trouble so a new one had to be called in, and by the time the plane arrived it was already half past ten.

In the four hours that they were in the air, Auston barely got a wink of sleep, so when he finally reaches his apartment it is almost three in the morning and he’s dead on his feet. But just as he’s about to get out of his car his phone lights up on the dashboard. He’s surprised to find that it’s a text from Mitch.

The last conversation they had was when the team was just about to board the plane, and in it Mitch said he was tired and heading to bed. Auston didn’t get any new messages from him when they arrived in Toronto, so he figured he was already asleep. 

As it turns out he isn’t.

“can’t sleep. need hugs.”

“You serious?”

“very”

“It can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“hugs now”

“But it’s late.”

“auston :(”

“Do you really want me to come over just to give you a hug?”

“i want u to stay the nite and cuddle”

“Fine. Gimme 15 mins.”

“yay :D”

The whole house is dark when he arrives there, but the front door is open just as Mitch said it would be. Once he’s inside Auston locks the door behind him and as silently as he can makes his way to Mitch’s room, where it is dark save for the glow of the yellow lava lamp on the bedside table.

Before he knows it, Mitch’s solid body is crashing against him. Auston can hardly make him out in the dark but he still wraps his arms around him, stroking his back. The moment doesn’t last, though, because Mitch quickly pulls away. His nose is scrunched up, and there’s a look of distaste on his face. 

Out of nowhere, a thought crosses Auston’s mind: _Your perfume_. 

“Is it my perfume?” he asks. 

Mitch nods, and immediately Auston takes a step back. 

“Shit. Sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Mitch says, reaching for Auston’s hand even as he tries to keep his distance. “I swear. Everything makes me nauseous these days. I can’t even go to the kitchen because the smells are too strong.”

Auston holds Mitch’s hand, and for a while they just stand there. “I can take a shower if you think that’d help?”

Mitch looks up at him with a shy, apologetic smile. “If you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” Auston shrugs. “Let me get my stuff.” 

He leaves Mitch’s room, descends the stairs, traverses the dark living room and then makes his way to his car where he grabs his duffle bag and then back into the house. He’s almost back to Mitch’s room when all of a sudden Paul who’s in his robe emerges out of nowhere. He stops in his tracks when he sees Auston there like a thief in the night.

Auston tries to come up with a plausible lie why he’s there in the wee hours of the morning. But then Paul, once he gets over his initial shock, just chuckles and nods at him. 

“Good night, kid,” he says, then walks away.

He tells Mitch what happened when he returns to his room, still stunned about the whole thing. “Now they’re gonna think I’m corrupting their son.”

“I doubt that,” says Mitch, pointing a finger at himself. “Already corrupted beyond repair, remember?”

A spark of annoyance ignites inside Auston, and the next thing he knows he’s taking Mitch’s face in his hands. “I don’t want you talking like that, okay?”

“Gee, it was just a joke.”

“ _Not_ funny.”

Mitch sighs, rolling his eyes. “All right, all right. Now go take shower. There’s a fresh towel in there.”

Before he heads to the shower, Auston grabs the back of Mitch’s neck and presses a firm kiss on his forehead. 

Auston tries to scrub himself as best as he can, washing off the stink of the plane and the whole day from him, and then dries his hair off. When he emerges from the bathroom Mitch is already under the blankets.

“Better?” asks Auston as he joins him.

Mitch buries his face in Auston’s neck and sniffs. “Much,” he says, and then wraps his arm around Auston’s torso. “Missed you loads.”

Auston rests his chin on top of Mitch’s head. “I missed you, too,” he says, stroking Mitch’ arm. “Have been a good boy to your parents?”

Mitch nods.

“And to Dylan?”

Mitch nods again. “Especially to Dylan,” he says. “Before we became friends we had this hockey rivalry going on as kids. He was such a little shit to me on and off the ice, but I think I like him better then. He keeps mothering me now and it’s driving me nuts sometimes.”

“He just cares about you.”

“Sometimes I wish no one cared about me. That way I can’t make anyone sad.”

Austin leans down to look at Mitch’s face. “You don’t really mean that.”

Mitch shrugs. “Maybe. I dunno. It seems like all I do is bring everyone down. I’m so sick and tired of making everyone so unhappy.”

“Well, you’re not making me unhappy,” Auston says. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty fucking great right now, holding you like this.”

Mitch looks up at him. “If it gets too much…if I get too much, I want you to let me know, okay? The last thing I want is to drive you away.”

“You’re not gonna drive me away.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I do, though. I told you I’m in this now, didn’t I? Come on, have a little bit of faith in me.”

Mitch is quiet after that, but he does cling to Auston a little tighter. 

Whether or not Mitch believes him, Auston is sticking around. They are going to see this through together. The good, the bad, the ugly—Auston wants all of it, and he’s going to prove it.

**x**

“Put this on,” says Auston, handing Mitch a blindfold.

Mitch stares at it with distrust. “Tell me where we’re going first.”

“Do you not understand the concept of surprises?”

“Give me a hint, at least.”

Auston groans. “Fine, it’s your Christmas present.”

“It isn’t even Christmas yet,” says Mitch, beaming.

“Yeah, but your present has three parts. This is the first.”

Mitch’s eyes widen. “There’s more?”

“Not if you don’t put that on,” Auston says as he starts the ignition. “And no peeking, or else you won’t get anything.”

The drive doesn’t last fifteen minutes but the whole time Mitch keeps guessing what his present could be—all of them wrong. (“It doesn’t have anything to do with fishing, does it?” “Nope.” “Is it a concert?” “Shut up, I’m not telling you.” “Oh, we’re going to a Christmas market, aren’t we?”)

When they arrive at the arena, Auston has to help Mitch out of the car, putting an arm around him as he guides him slowly through the labyrinthine corridors that led to the locker room, inside which the guys are standing silently in a row, sporting disparate grins on their faces. Auston still can’t believe they’re all here; some of them should have already flown back home for the Christmas break, and yet they stayed back a day to do this for him. 

“Ready?” Auston asks Mitch, who nods. “All right, you can it off.”

“ _Surprise!_ ”

Mitch jumps out of his skin when he hears their booming voices, his eyes squinting at the sudden brightness, but once his eyes adjust, his jaw drops and his face flushes beet red. He turns to Auston, then back to the guys.

“This is insane,” Mitch says, a shy smile blossoming on his face. “Hi.”

They all laugh at his dumbfounded face. 

It’s Willy who comes up to Mitch first and introduces himself. “Hey, buddy, how you doing?” 

Mitch shakes his hand. “I’m freaking out right now but I’m great,” he says, chuckling. 

Willy is followed by Freddy, Bozie, Naz, and soon Mitch is swallowed in a sea of these massive, towering men vying for his attention.

Meanwhile Auston hangs back, content to just watch Mitch interact with the guys. It’s a strange but not an unwelcome scene to behold, the way Mitch seem to fit right in with the rest of the team. Auston actually had some initial trepidation about this. At first he feared maybe Mitch would take it as a slight, meeting the team, or if not that maybe he’d feel too overwhelmed by it, or maybe he simply won’t like it, but seeing him now dispels all of that. Mitch is still red in the face, but he’s also grinning, and every once in a while he’d throw his head back with laughter at someone’s joke.

While Auston takes it all in, Reemer sidles up to him. “It’s done,” he says, handing Auston back the keys to his apartment. “We made sure to make it look pretty, but we can only do so much to that shithole you call your apartment.”

“Thanks, man, appreciate it.”

Reemer nods. “Don’t say I never did anything for you,” he says, clapping Auston on the back. “Now let me go introduce myself.”

When Auston approached some of the guys with his idea, he actually had no clue how to carry it out, but thankfully Reemer did, who told him to leave it to him and his girl, they knew what to do. Auston doesn’t know exactly what Reemer did, but he does trust him so he isn’t all too worried about it.

Like an apparition, Babcock appears out of nowhere and strides toward Mitch. The guys part to make room for him, and that’s when Auston sees it, the white-and-royal blue cloth he’s holding in his hands.

“I’ve heard a lot of great things about you,” he tells Mitch, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a great kid. These guys know that I’m not very much given to flattery and false praise, but I want you to know that as far as I’m concerned you’re a Leaf, so I thought I’d give this to you.”

Mitch gingerly takes the sweater and holds it out in front of him to have a better look. The number “16” is emblazoned on the back, with “MARNER” stitched onto the nameplate. 

Mitch stares at it for a long time, and then up at Babcock. “I…I don’t know what to say,” he says. “This…is amazing. Thank you.” There’s a soft smile on his face, and he’s visibly holding back his tears, but instead of crying he crushes Babcock in a tight hug, who seems surprised by it but nevertheless pats Mitch on the back. 

“Merry Christmas,” Babcock says.

Brownie gathers everyone for a photo then, with Mitch, now wearing his sweater, smack in the middle of it. Auston can’t help but be mesmerized by the sheer joy emanating from Mitch, so when the photo is taken, his eyes are on him and he’s sporting this soft, stupid smile on his face. 

Later Auston makes it a point to say thank you to each of the guys as they all start to leave, and he receives a variation of “don’t mention it” and “my pleasure” and “Merry Christmas, bro.”

As they make their way back to the employee’s parking space, with Auston’s armslung across Mitch’s shoulders, Auston says “so this isn’t exactly part of your present, and you can obviously say no, but I figured, since we’re already here, do you want to maybe skate a little bit?”

Mitch grins up at him. “ _Yeah_ ,” he says. “I don’t have my skates, though.”

“I’m sure we can find a pair of skates lying around. Come on.”

Thankfully the rink hasn’t yet been defrosted, and Auston manages to talk one of the maintenance guys into switching open a couple of the lights for a few minutes.

Mitch struggles to stay upright on the ice during his first few minutes there, his movements ungainly as he regains his balance, and Auston has to hover around him to make sure he doesn’t fall. Dr. Zimmer, and no doubt Bonnie, will kill him if they knew he deliberately put Mitch in danger like this, but Auston selfishly wants to experience at least once what it’s like to be on the ice with Mitch. If things have gone differently, they could have ended up playing with or against each other in the big leagues. Either way is fine with him as long as he knows Mitch is there with him.

No.

Auston snaps out of it before he loses himself in the fantasy. There’s no point dwelling in it. This is his reality now. There’s not much else he can do about it but make every minute with Mitch count.

“Not too fast, okay?” Auston calls out after Mitch, who is now trying to do laps around the rink. He reminds Auston of a baby bird flying out of the nest for the first time, his movements clumsy but determined.

Mitch stumbles then, teetering with his arms flailing wildly, but he manages not to fall. Auston races over to him, and when he gets there Mitch stares at him with his mouth open. “Did you see that?” he says, very impressed with himself.

Auston isn’t. “What did I just say?”

“Sorry,” says Mitch bashfully, but he does skate with a little more care after that.

The whole time they’re on the ice, a rush of bliss doesn't quite leave Auston. It lingers even in the space between him and Mitch, and he can’t help but soak in that feeling. He knows it’s coming from Mitch, but maybe a little bit of it is coming from him, too. For a long time all he can do is stand there and watch Mitch glide around him. 

Auston would have loved to just let Mitch go on like that, but when he starts huffing and puffing, his eyes going unfocused, he knows it’s time to go. He grabs Mitch’s hand and pulls him against his chest.

“I…I missed this.” Mitch pants.

“Had fun?”

Mitch nods. “I don’t even want to leave, but I feel like my legs are gonna fall off if I don’t.”

“You all right?”

“I’m good. Just…let me catch my breath.”

Auston does’t let go of Mitch when they finally exit the rink, keeping one arm around him in case he stumbles. Back in the car, Mitch shifts in the passenger seat and looks at Auston fondly.

“Thanks for today,” he says.

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m not yet finished.”

Mitch grins. “So when am I getting the rest of it?”

“There’s one tonight, and then the other’s arriving tomorrow.”

“Wow,” says Mitch. “The way you’re lavishing me with presents you’d think I was dying.”

Auston throws him a hard look.

“Sorry, bad joke,” says Mitch, but he doesn’t look too contrite about it. “I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to say, ‘you don’t have to do any of this’ and then you’re going to say, ‘I know but I want to,’ and all that saccharine shit, but can I just say? I really appreciate what you’re doing, and you really don’t have to do any of this for me, but I’m really glad that you are.”

Auston reaches over the console to hold Mitch’s hand and links their fingers together. “I have a lot of catching up to do.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, squeezing Auston’s hand. “It’s enough that you’re here. _It is_. Before I met you, I thought that it would be better if we never met at all, spare us both the heartache of it, you know? There were days when I actually believed it. But after you showed up I realized I’d rather drop dead than live a normal and healthy life not knowing you—and I mean it. So don’t feel like you have to make it up to me or something.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. So where are we off to?” Mitch asks.

“Home,” Auston says as he exits the arena. “You need to take a nap and rest. I’ll pick you up tonight.”

Mitch doesn’t look happy about that, but he doesn’t complain, just holds onto Auston’s hand as they make their way home.

The rest of Auston’s afternoon is spent wrapping presents for his family, who he has to pick up from the airport later at seven. After which he has to drop them off at Sheraton, pick up Mitch’s and his dinner, bring it back to his apartment, then fetch Mitch. Today's one of the busiest days he’s had in a long while—the days leading up to Christmas always are—but he finds that he doesn’t really mind.

**x**

When he picks Mitch up later than night, Auston promises Paul and Bonnie that he’d make sure Mitch takes his meds and that he won’t hesitate to call if they need anything.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Auston says at the door.

“We know you will,” says Bonnie. “You boys have fun. Mitch, don’t give Auston a headache.”

Once they’re inside the car Mitch asks, “you’re not going to blindfold me this time?”

Auston leers at him. “Why, do you want me to?”

“Kinky,” says Mitch. “But no thanks. I’m not really into the whole S&M thing. That shit is freaky. I mean, no hate or anything, but I don’t need pain to get it up. Do…do you?”

“Jesus, no.”

Mitch looks almost relieved. “Good,” he says, smiling. “Boring, vanilla sex is good. Okay, now go forth my noble steed.” Mitch leans back on his seat and puts his socked feet on the dashboard.

When they reach Auston’s apartment, Auston looks at Mitch’s face one last time before he opens the door and leads Mitch inside. In the dim light, Reemer’s handiwork is even more impressive, and Auston can see Mitch taking it all in with wild-eyed wonder: the blanket fort, the fairy lights, the comforters and throw pillows, the projector set up on one side of the room.

Auston’s original idea comprised of a run-off-the-mill dinner and a movie, but realized that he can’t risk exposing Mitch in public places so that was out of the question; besides, an hour and a half inside a theater may be too much for him. Then Auston considered a drive-in theater, but immediately dismissed the idea. It’s too cold. In the end he settled for watching a film in his apartment but had no idea how to make it less…commonplace.

Thank god for Reemer and his predilection for cheesy stuff.

“Do you like it?” Auston asks.

“Are you for real?” Mitch says, his eyes fixed on the blanket fort suffused with the orange glow from the fairy lights. “This is the sweetest. It’s like I’m living in a Pinterest board or something. Did you do all of this?”

Auston shrugs. “I had some help.”

There’s a toothy grin on Mitch’s face when he turns to him. “Auston Matthews,” he says, “is this a _date_?”

Auston can even get himself to front, so he just nods. 

“Remember when you told me that you already missed out on a lot of normal, everyday stuff?” he says. “Well, I figured I’d date you up because I don’t want you to miss out on that, too.”

Mitch steps into his space. “Is that right?” he says. “So if this is a date, do I have to wait until the end of it to kiss you? Because, man, I’ve been waiting for so long and I’m starting to think I’m so physically repulsive that you don’t want to—”

There’s nothing graceful in the way Auston slots their mouths together. It’s actually very sloppy, their noses squished awkwardly, with Auston’s tongue exploring Mitch’s mouth with a little too much gusto. But soon they find their rhythm, and when they do, Auston remembers what his mom once told him, about everything suddenly making sense when you find your soulmate—Auston feels it now, this warm contentment that settles all over him.

Mitch laughs into the kiss, pulling back a little bit. “Why the fuck are you thinking about your mom?” he says. “Should I be concerned here?”

Auston kisses him in response. He doesn’t have to explain; Mitch already knows. When they finally pull apart, Auston rests his forehead against Mitch’s. “Better than Dylan?”

Mitch groans. “Must you remind me? It was basically incest.”

“That wasn’t an answer, though,” Auston teases.

“Well, for the record, you’re the better kisser. No contest. But I think we should make out a little more just to be sure.”

And so they do. 

A little while later, when both their mouths are swollen, Auston asks, “so what are you keen to do first, eat or movie?”

“Is it okay if we eat first? I’m actually famished.”

Auston nods and presses another kiss on Mitch’s lips. “We could do that.”

After dinner Mitch crawls into the blanket fort with the enthusiasm of a small child, splaying himself out in the middle of it and then cradles a pillow to his chest as he stares up at the little lights. They end up watching Midnight in Paris because Mitch wanted something funny and neither of them have seen it before.

The thing about blanket forts that no one tells you about is that it’s really hard to find a comfortable position in it, so it takes them a while to maneuver themselves into a position in which they could both cuddle and watch the movie at the same time, which happens to be with Mitch half-sitting, half-lying between Auston’s legs and with Auston’s back supported by a mound of pillows. Auston hooks his chin on Mitch’s shoulder and wraps his arms across his stomach.

Not twenty minutes into the movie, Mitch is asleep and softly snoring. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble falling asleep whenever they’re together, which isn’t always the case for Auston. Some nights he finds it even harder to sleep when he’s with Mitch, because in the silence punctuated by Mitch’s breathing, Auston’s head fills with thoughts he’d much rather ignore but can’t. He hates it when they ambush him like this. It’s a losing battle. Especially tonight. Auston doesn’t fall asleep even after the movie is long over. So he comforts himself the only way he knows how, by placing his palm against Mitch’s chest and listening to the beat of his heart.

**x**

“I think Chris is flirting with your sister,” says Mitch.

“Alex?”

Mitch nods. Auston follows his eyes. Chris and Alex are sat near the fire, sipping their wines, and he seems to be telling her a funny story. The way Alex is leaning forward and laughing at his jokes is pretty telling. 

Auston shrugs.

“You don’t mind?” asks Mitch, chuckling.

“They’re adults,” he says. “They can take care of themselves.”

Breyana is playing with Winston near the tree. Their dads are somewhere in the house, probably in the garage bonding over their shared interest in old cars, while Bonnie is showing Auston’s mom photos from an old photo album whose pages are yellowing at the edges.

It’s thirty minutes to midnight, and Mitch is trying valiantly to stay awake with little success. He didn’t take a nap today, and the day’s festivities have clearly taken a toll on him. When Auston’s family arrived earlier that day, Mitch took it upon himself to be a good host, chatting and laughing with them, showing them around, making sure they’re comfortable. Auston later pulled him aside and told him he didn't have to do any of it, but he seemed genuinely happy to. 

“You look like you’re ready to pass out, buddy,” Auston says. “I think it’s time for you to go to bed.”

“ _Nooooo_. Presents first.”

Bonnie laughs at that. “I guess we could start opening them. It’s almost midnight anyway. Chris, go fetch dad and Brian.”

It’s the Matthews who hands out their presents first since they are “the guests of honor.” Auston’s parents have gifts for everyone, including Winston and Burbank, which makes Bonnie tear up a little bit. Then it’s Chris, Paul, Bonnie, and Mitch’s turn. Mitch is pretty bummed that he wasn’t able to get Auston’s family anything, but Auston’s mom assures him that it’s all right, being welcomed in their house is the best gift they could have given them. Auston opens Mitch’s presents for him, which is a lot, a pile by his feet by the time they’re all done handing out presents. Some of his include a set of children’s coloring book, fluffy slippers, a tea infuser that looks like a rubber duck, a hand bell, a sushi plush pillow, and a dozen pair of socks, which Mitch finds infinitely amusing. Each time Auston tears off a present’s wrapping to reveal another pair of socks, Mitch would laugh and hold it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Everyone's in good spirits after that. Looking around the room, Auston is suddenly reminded of their Christmases back in Scottsdale: the air smelling faintly of cinnamon and nutmeg, the floor strewn with ripped gift wrappers, an imposing Christmas tree glittering in one corner of the room, Nat King Cole singing softly about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Auston wishes there’s a way to preserve all of this, bottle it up, so when the day comes when he feels himself all drained of life, he can just take this memory out and live in it again.

Soon Auston announces that Mitch is heading to bed, and Mitch doesn’t even fight him on it, just clings to Auston as he is lifted from the couch.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow, right?” Mitch asks Auston’s mom.

“Of course, sweetheart,” she replies. “We’ll have the whole day together.”

Mitch beams at that. “Good night, then.”

After everyone bids them goodnight, Auston leaves the room and then makes his way toward Mitch’s room, but before they climb the stairs Auston stops in the middle of the foyer, underneath a mistletoe.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Auston says before leaning town to kiss Mitch. When he pulls away, Mitch smiles up at him.

“You’re a walking cheeseball, but I like you.”

When they reach Mitch’s room, Auston lays him down on the bed and tucks him in. “Did you have a good Christmas Eve?”

Mitch nods. “Best. Christmas Eve. Ever.” he says. “Thanks for bringing your family. They’re all wonderful, and I like your mom. She’s very nice.”

Auston huffs a laugh, running his fingers through Mitch’s hair. “Yeah, she’s amazing.”

Auston watches as Mitch slowly falls asleep, but then suddenly he’s shooting up from bed. 

“Shit,” he says. “I haven’t given your present yet.” Then he slowly gets out of bed and pads over to his closet, where he digs up what appears to be a thick stack of 5”x 8” leather-bound journals, which he hands to Auston. 

Auston stares at the stack in his lap, then at Mitch as he waits for an explanation of sorts.

“The first time I was diagnosed with leukemia they sent me to a shrink to make sure that I could cope, and my psychiatrist told me to keep a journal. She said it was very important that I keep track of how I’m feeling by putting them to paper, and I guess the habit just stuck. I haven’t journaled in a while because it’s hard to hold a pen sometimes and I found it easier to just keep a blog, but everything I’ve written since I was fifteen is in these journals and I want you to have them.”

“Mitch—”

“You don’t have to read them. You can burn them or throw them away. I don’t care. Do whatever you want, but a huge part of my life—of me—is in these journals, and it makes me feel better knowing I’m leaving them with you.”

This sounds a lot like a goodbye, and Auston doesn’t know if he’s prepared for that yet, but in the end, he has no choice but to nod and accept them, and he’s rewarded with Mitch’s grin.

“I know you have to go back downstairs, but will you hold me until I’m sleeping?”

Auston doesn’t even need to be asked. He just slips into bed next Mitch and holds him close. 

**x**

A few nights later Auston wakes to find Mitch’s face soaked in the blue light from his computer, and when he squints at the screen he sees weird pictures of lions, pandas, ferrets, and what have you.

“What are you still doing up?” he mumbles, and it takes Mitch such a long time to answer that Auston starts to think maybe he didn’t hear him.

“Did you know that elephants go away from everyone when they die? They wander off to find a quiet place for themselves.”

It’s such a strange thing to say at this hour that for a moment Auston doesn’t know how to respond. “Like dogs?”

Mitch nods. “It’s a carryover from their wolf ancestors. Dogs are pack animals, so they leave because they don’t want to slow the rest of the pack down and make them vulnerable to attack.”

“Okay?”

“But there are lots of animals that do it too,” says Mitch, his eyes never leaving the screen as he continues scrolling down the page. “Like cats and rhinos and some whales.”

“Babe, can we talk about this in the morning? You need to rest. C’mere,” Auston says, pulling Mitch down against him. 

Auston won’t think much of this conversation until he’s in Pittsburgh playing the Penguins some weeks later, toward the end of January, when he receives a call from Bonnie in the middle of the night asking if he knows where Mitch is, because he’s not home, they can’t find him. Auston will remember it then and realize his mistake: he should have listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all comments are welcome and appreciated.


	6. Don't Bring Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we've reached the end. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me throughout this journey, especially those who wrote me comments every. single. update. You know who you are and I love you.
> 
> Until next time. Cheers!

“Are you sure you guys are going to be okay?” Bonnie says at the door, the bags at her feet waiting to be picked up.

“Mom, that's like the tenth time you've said that. We’ll be _fine_.”

Bonnie’s forehead wrinkles. “I don't know,” she says. “I feel so guilty leaving you guys here on your own while we’re cruising through the Caribbean. It doesn't seem right. We can still reschedule it, right, dad? Go another time?”

“No, you can’t,” says Mitch, “and the only thing you should feel guilty about is missing your flight. This cruise cost Auston a fortune.”

“Oh, Auston, honey I don't mean to sound ungrateful but this really is too much. I can't even bear the idea of leaving Mitch.”

“It’s not like you’re never gonna see me again,” Mitch says, “and I really wanted you guys to have nice time. You deserve it after all the shit I've put you through.” 

“Language.”

“Besides, aren’t you glad you get to escape this dreary weather? Imagine all that sand and sea and sunshine. It’s gonna be perfect.”

Bonnie turns to Paul and frowns. For a second she seems ready to put a foot down, say she’s decided not to go, but soon resolve finally settles over her face. “I want you guys to call us if anything happens, okay? You can call me anytime,” she says, her eyes sweeping over the three of them.

Auston nods. “We will,” he promises.

“Dylan, you have Dr. Zimmer’s number. If you suspect something isn’t right I trust that you’d call him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And I also asked Chris to check up on you, so he’ll be dropping by after work—”

“Mom, _go,_ ” says Mitch, physically nudging her out the door.

Paul pulls each of them in a one-armed hug. “You boys take care,” he says, ruffling Mitch’s hair. “Try not to burn my house down while we’re gone.”

They watch the SUV pull out the driveway, and they stay on the porch until they can’t see the car anymore. Once Bonnie and Paul are gone, Mitch slings his arms around both Auston and Dylan’s shoulders. “So,” he says with a mischievous grin, “what’s the plan?”

Dylan raises an eyebrow. “The plan, Mitchell, is to make sure you rest and don’t exhaust yourself.”

“But I don’t wanna rest,” he says, pouting. “There will come a time in my immediate future when all I’ll ever do is rest and lie in bed until I die. Do you have any idea how depressing that is? Why not let me have fun while I’m still ambulatory?

“Because your idea of fun can get you killed, and I don’t mean that figuratively. I mean, yesterday you were _begging_ me to go skating. I guess it’s cool that you don’t resent the ice anymore, but what if you fall on your butt or twist your ankle the wrong way—what then? I’ll tell you what then: you’d bruise so badly your blood won’t clot and then you’d drop dead.”

Auston shifts and lowers his gaze.

“You exaggerate,” says Mitch. “I’d go into shock first, then have a heart attack, fall into a coma while a couple of my organs fail, and _then_ drop dead.”

“You’re not helping your case, you know?”

“I’m not saying we go skating. I just want to get out of the house for a bit. I feel like I’m going out of my mind, like that dude in _The Shining_ who lost it after being inside so long. What’s his name, the one Jack Nicholson played?”

“Jack Torrance,” Auston supplies helpfully.

“That’s right, and then I’ll chase you both down with an axe.”

“You don’t own an axe,” Dylan says.

“Come on, what’s the point of being alive if you feel like a convict on death row anyway? I might as well just tie a noose around my neck and hang myself from one of the beams in the garage—”

“Alright!” Dylan says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Where do you want to go then?”

“Can we go to Eaton Centre?”

Dylan frowns. “No, absolutely not. There’s too many people there.”

“Come on, Dyl, it’ll be fine. We don’t have to stay long.”

“Why do you even want to go to the mall?”

“No reason.” Mitch shrugs. “It’s been a while, and I kinda miss it.”

He’s lying, Auston knows it, but he figures Mitch is just desperate to get out of the house, so he doesn’t think too much of it. 

“Pleeeease?”

Dylan breathes out an exasperated sigh and turns to Auston, as if giving him the final say in the matter. Then Mitch turns to him, too, imploring. Well, Auston is powerless against those big blue eyes, so he finds himself saying, “I guess we can go out for lunch.” 

Mitch whoops, and then leans up to peck Auston on the lips.

“But only if you promise to wear your mask the whole time,” says Auston, pulling back a little. “And we’re leaving if you so much as break a sweat.”

“Deal.”

That’s how they end up in an overly crowded mall at lunch hour on Boxing Day, pushing their way through a throng of loud, overeager Canadians. Auston has to wrap a protective arm around Mitch to make sure he doesn’t get jostled around too much. Dylan walks a few steps ahead, paving the way for them. Occasionally he’d turn around and shoot Mitch a displeased look. 

In the restaurant, the lunch crowd is so heavy they have to wait a full twenty minutes to be seated; there are lines set up with metal railings just inside the door like a ride at an amusement park.

“You guys are gross,” Dylan says as they wait in line, pursing his lips at the way Mitch’s front is pressed against Auston’s back, his chin hooked on Auston’s shoulder.

“Aww, Dyl,” says Mitch. “Don’t be jealous. You’ll find CM.”

Dylan rolls his eyes. “I'm not jealous,” he says. “And who says I want to find CM? I don’t need a soulmate to feel whole. As far as I'm concerned I am my own soulmate, and I’m perfectly happy with that.”

“Yeah, you’re a strong and independent woman who don’t need no man, that’s why I love you, but CM should have a place in your life, too, you know? You can be someone’s soulmate and still be your own.”

“I know that, but I won’t let my happiness be dependent on him. Or her. If they happen to come into my life, then fantastic. If not, well, it won’t be the end of the world.”

Mitch doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go.

Except for the a small boy and his dad who come up to them asking for Auston’s autograph and their photo to be taken, lunch passes by uneventfully. Mitch devours an entire basket of garlic bread but not much else—something about his tastebuds being weird—and after he’s done polishing all the bread off, he steals the two pieces of bread off of Dylan’s plate. 

When Auston gets a waitress’ attention to asks for the check, Mitch promptly gets up from his chair. “I’m just gonna go to the washroom,” he says.

“Okay,” says Dylan as he tinkers on his phone.

“Want me to go with you?” asks Auston.

Mitch snorts. “I think I can pee on my own,” he says. “Be right back.” And with that, he quickly leaves their table.

Auston signs the receipt when the waitress returns with his card and then thanks her as he hands back the pen and bill folder. Silence fills the table once the she leaves. It’s not awkward, but neither is it exactly comfortable. Until now Auston hasn’t yet figured out how to act around Dylan. If he were to assign a label to their relationship he’d say that they’re friends—although what kind is still pretty much up in the air. Maybe their friendship was borne initially out of necessity, for Mitch’s sake, but Auston feels as though they’re beyond that now.

Dylan must have felt him staring, because then he glances up from his phone and their eyes meet. “How are you holding up?” Dylan asks.

Auston knows right away what he means. “Well,” he begins, “I haven’t cried in front of him yet, so I guess I’m holding up pretty well.”

Dylan cracks a smile at that. “Yeah, try not to do it in front of him,” he says. “He acts like it doesn’t bother him when people cry, but trust me, it does, he just doesn’t show it. He’s the biggest softy I know. I’m not very good at keeping a stiff upper lip but he makes it so easy because he never complains. I remember once when his doctors had to do a biopsy on his bone marrow. They were literally drilling a hole in his hipbone with his huge ass needle and he just lay there on the hospital bed. If you heard his bones cracking _you_ would feel it. I almost threw up. On the ride home there were involuntary tears running down his face but he never made a sound. I don’t know where he gets all that strength but I’m glad for it. Makes it a lot more near bearable for me. I know that sounds so selfish, but it's true.”

Loath as he is to admit it, Auston feels the same way. He may act all tough around Mitch, but he isn’t, really, neither mentally nor physically.

“I have to say, though,” Dylan continues, “he does seem a lot happier since you came along, so I guess I need to thank you for that.”

Auston shrugs. “My pleasure.”

Dylan sneers. 

“Oh, I bet,” he says. “Don’t think I don’t see all the rubbers you guys are throwing in the trash. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad Marns is getting laid, but please tell him to tie the condom off before wrapping it in tissue because it makes a mess in the trash and it’s fucking disgusting.”

A flush creeps across Auston’s face. The last thing he wants to do is discuss his sex life with Dylan, thank you very much, so he steers the conversation back in the direction it came from.

“And what about you?” he asks. “How are you holding up?”

Dylan shakes his head. “Not good,” he says. “I’m failing all my classes and I think they’re kicking me off the team. They’re saying that I’m not pulling my weight. Well, fuck all of them. I have bigger concerns.” 

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t tell Marns, though.”

“Of course.”

“He’d flip out and think it’s his fault.”

Well, it is, a little, but Auston understands what Dylan is saying. “I won’t say a thing.”

“Speaking of which…what’s the hell is taking him so long?”

Auston glances at the direction of the restroom, wondering if he’s been held up or something. They wait another ten minutes, and when he still doesn’t reappear Auston gets up to check on him. When Auston gets there, he’s is pulled up short: not only is there no line at the restroom, but the restroom itself is unoccupied. He returns to their table confused.

“He’s not there,” he tells Dylan.

“What do you mean he’s not there?”

“The restroom is empty.”

Dylan curses and then dials Mitch’s number. He waits for a few seconds, and when Mitch doesn’t answer, he tries to call a second time.

Auston whips his phone out, too, and shoots a text message. “Mitchy, where are you?” it says. And then for good measure sends another one: “Please let us know ASAP. Dylan is freaking out.”

_I am, too_ , Auston doesn’t add.

When all their calls and messages go unanswered, panic starts to settle in the pit of Auston’s stomach, and a quick glance at Dylan’s face says that he’s not alone. He’s still on the phone trying to get a hold of Mitch, but he’s biting his nails and his legs won’t stop bouncing. 

With his brain on overdrive, Auston can’t help but picture Mitch collapsing in a sea of people somewhere. Then he realizes that there’s no use entertaining such horrific images. They have to do something. So he tells Dylan to wait for Mitch there by the door in case he returns while Auston looks for a security guard and ask for help, maybe they could let him use the PA system or something. Dylan agrees and they make their way outside.

When they emerge from the restaurant, however, Dylan immediately spot Mitch in the distance, striding toward their direction. Auston lets out a sigh of relief, but his relief is quickly replaced by irritation, and Mitch knows it because there’s a look of remorse on his face when he reaches them. 

“Sorry,” Mitch says, panting. He is flush, the beanie on his head askew.

If looks could kill, then the sheer intensity of Dylan’s scowl would kill Mitch faster than his cancer. “Goddammit, Marns! Don’t do that!”

“Do what?”

“Where the fuck were you?”

“I told you,” he says. “I went to the washroom.”

“There’s one inside,” Auston says, studying Mitch’s face, but he won’t meet his eyes. 

“It was occupied and I needed to go.”

“You could have at least answered our calls,” says Dylan.

Mitch fishes his phone on from his pocket, checks it, and then bites his lip. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I didn’t know it was on silent.”

He’s not telling them the truth, and Auston thinks he knows why. He’s probably fed up with their constant cosseting and wanted to spend a few minutes on his own, untethered to their watchful eyes. Auston can’t really blame him, but it still exasperates him.

“I hope you made the most out of your little excursion because we’re leaving now,” he says, then turns on his heels and starts walking toward the parking lot.

In the car Mitch tries to lighten the mood by engaging both Auston and Dylan in a conversation, but neither of them are in the mood to talk. Auston hates to be gruff with Mitch, but it’s hard not to be after the shit he pulled. So after a while, Mitch gives up and leans back on his seat.

**x**

Even after they get back to the house Auston and Dylan are still too high-strung to say anything to Mitch except to tell him that he take his meds and go to his room for a nap, which he obediently does.

Dylan sighs when they finally hear the door to Mitch’s room shutting softly, and then he turns to Auston. “Wanna play?”

“Yeah, okay.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon playing Street Fighter on the Playstation, a game in which Auston has zero skill, but he keeps winning anyway thanks to his character who can teleport and stretch his limbs the length of the screen—much to Dylan’s frustration. It isn’t until Auston feels Mitch succumbing to sleep does he finally allow himself to relax and enjoy the game.

“That’s not fair!” Dylan cries after his Chun-Li gets KO-ed for the nth time.

“How so?”

“You’re just pressing the same buttons!”

“That’s called strategy,” Auston says, but he does change characters in the next match just so Dylan would stop whining. He picks Chun-Li too and for the first couple of rounds loses. Auston starts winning again once he learns how to throw a fireball.

“Now you’re just spamming Hadoukens at my face,” says Dylan. “You’re such a dirty player, Matthews.”

Auston snorts. “And you’re a sore loser.”

Because Auston is a gracious sportsman, he lets Dylan win a couple of rounds before opting out of the game and checks on Mitch upstairs. He’s fast asleep, sprawled on his stomach with half his face smushed against the pillow. It’s so painfully adorable that Auston has to climb in bed and lie next to him.

Trying to make as little movement as possible, he cuddles up next to Mitch and , on his phone, answers the emails he’s received over the last couple of days. There’s a couple of unimportant messages from his agent and a few perfunctory updates from the management; the rest of it are from friends and teammates wishing him a happy Christmas. 

He’s typing out a response to Freddy’s message, who’s back in Herning for the holidays, when he feels Mitch stir beside him. Neither of them speak for a while, but it’s Mitch who finally breaks the silence.

“Are you still mad at me?” he mumbles, looking up at Auston.

“I’m not mad.”

“You were giving me the silent treatment.”

“I was just worried,” he says, and juts like that the annoyance from earliercomes trickling back. “You disappeared on us, Mitch. You were gone for almost half an hour. We couldn’t even get a hold of you. I was already picturing all these horrible things in my head. How do you think we felt?”

Mitch cups Auston’s cheek and turns his head to face him. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Auston sighs. “I know that, but I can’t help it. I’m never not going to worry. No matter what happens I will always worry, so you need to promise not to disappear like that again.”

“I promise,” says Mitch, leaning up to slot their mouths together. It’s chaste but firm, and for a few moments Auston just holds on to it. When Mitch breaks the kiss, he snuggles against the crook of Auston’s neck.

“I wish we had more time,” Mitch says after a while. “There’s so much I wish we got to do together.”

“Like what?”

“Go to the beach in the summer, visit your house in Scottsdale, see more of the world—those sort of stuff.”

“We can still do them,” Auston says. “We have time.”

“Come on, Auston. I’m being serious here.”

“So am I.”

“You realize I only have a couple of weeks left, right? A month at most.”

Auston frowns. “Please don’t say that.”

“Say what, that I’m dying? Well, guess what. I am.”

“Why do you always have to dress rehearse your own death, huh?” Auston says, trying but failing to keep his annoyance in check. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you? You’re still here and that’s all that matters.”

“But soon I won’t be. I’ll be gone by springtime.”

“Mitch, please stop,” Auston pleads, taking Mitch’s face in his hands.

“I’m way overdue. They gave me six months. It’s already my seventh. You have to accept that I don’t have much time left.”

Auston sits up and glares at Mitch. “Well, maybe I don’t want to.”

“Auston…”

“Maybe your doctors got it all wrong. They’re humans, too. They’re not perfect. They could have misdiagnosed you or something. It’s possible.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

Auston gives him an incredulous look. “Why are you being like this?” he says. “It’s almost like you’ve given up.” 

Auston doesn’t understand. It’s such a foreign concept to him, giving up: he had learned very early that no matter the odds, you try to win until the very end. It doesn’t matter if you’re down 5–0 and there’s only ten minutes left on the clock—you skate faster, push harder. Every second counts.

“My life isn’t a hockey game, Auston,” says Mitch. “You think I haven’t done enough to beat it? We’ve tried everything and nothing worked. I haven’t given up. I’m just…I dunno, giving in, I guess.”

“So, what, you’re just going to let it to kill you?”

“I don’t have much choice in the matter, do I?”

“That is such bullshit,” says Auston. “You always have a choice.” There’s something about Mitch’s nonchalance that is both unnerving and infuriating at the same time.

“Not in this, I don’t,” Mitch says, meeting Auston’s glare head on. “I’m tired of fighting. Scarfing down twenty pills that you know will make you feel like shit is a fight. Feeling your bones pulsate every time you walk is a fight. Just getting out of bed is a fight. It would be easier to say screw it and just lie around and let it kill me.”

A blank expression settles on Auston’s face. “What about me—about us? Are you tired of fighting for us, too?”

“That’s not what I said,” says Mitch, reaching out to touch Auston’s arm.

Auston flinches back. “But it is, though.”

“Now you’re being unfair.”

Auston swings his legs over the bed and squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t be in here right now, not in this room, or else he’d lose it, and he doesn’t want to do that in front of Mitch.

He hears Mitch call out to him when he exits the room, begging for him to come back. Auston ignores him and thunders down the stairs.

“Where you going?” Dylan asks distractedly when he sees Auston pick his keys up from the center table.

“Out,” he says as he puts his shoes on. “Don’t wait up.”

** x **

Without a particular destination in mind, Auston just drives. He doesn’t know how long he’s on the road, but it must have been a while because he’s still on the road long after the sun has left the horizon. 

It wasn’t right storming off like that, and Mitch of all people didn’t deserve it, but he also didn’t want to say something he’d later regret. Walking out was the only useful thing he could think to do; at least in the confined space of his car, with the road stretching out before him, he can think.

To be completely honest, until today Auston still believed that they had a shot at a real life together: Mitch seemed to be doing better, all things considered. Everyone keeps saying how much his mood has improved. Every once in a while he’d even get a sudden burst of energy, this sudden light inside of him which makes it hard to believe there’s something bad festering inside of him. Even Dr. Zimmer had commented that he’s doing uncharacteristically well at this stage in his cancer. 

Maybe it was foolish of him to have placed his faith in these tenuous signs, but he has never been good at accepting things the way they are. In his mind there’s always a way to improve things, make them better. So when he was faced with this reality he knew he couldn’t change, he pushed it as far away as he could,ignored it, silenced it, drowned out its sound, but now he reached a point where he has to confront it, whether he likes it or not.

Sure, there’s no way around it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t stave off that confrontation for a little while longer—so he pulls up at the next bar he sees and drowns his sorrows in cheap beer.

Or at least he tries to.

He’s nursing his third glass when he remembers that he has to drive back to Mitch’s house, and should therefore take it easy. He’s not drunk yet, but because it’s way past dinner time and he’s drinking on an empty stomach, he’s also clearly not sober. After he finishes his third beer, he asks the bartender for a glass of water and drinks all of it in one go. After that he pays his tab, pees, and then leaves. 

It’s a small blessing that he doesn’t get pulled over on the drive back, because it occurs to him soon after he leaves the bar that he underestimated his tolerance for alcohol. His vision blurs at the edges, and his cheeks feel numb, and the Leafs organization doesn't take a DUI lightly. 

The house is dark when he gets back, and when he stumbles inside he finds it quiet and still. Trying to make as little noise as possible, he takes his shoes off and slips out of his coat. He considers checking if Mitch is still awake so he can go apologize, but in the end decides against it. It’s better they talk about it tomorrow when he isn’t shit-faced.

The couch is too small for him to sleep in, but he still plops down on it and tries finding a comfortable position, which happens to be on his side with a throw pillow tucked between his legs. With alcohol running through his system, sleep comes easy.

It doesn’t last, though, because after a while for some reason his eyes are fluttering open, and once they are, they see Mitch’s shadowy figure sitting on the center table and leaning toward him, silently watching him. Auston doesn’t know what to say, so he just lies there unmoving, trying to make out Mitch’s face in the dark.

“Hi,” Mitch whispers.

“Hey.”

“You came back.”

Auston is quiet after that.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually. “I shouldn’t have walked out on you.”

Mitch gets up from the table and sits on the floor next to the couch. “It’s alright. I’m just glad you’ve gotten your freak out over with.”

“My what?”

“Your freak out,” Mitch explains, chuckling. “It’s sort of a rite of passage when dealing with my leukemia. Everyone’s already had them. Mom was the first, then it was Chris, then dad and then Dylan. I was starting to wonder if it was ever going to happen to you, so I understand why you reacted that way.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Mitch reaches for Auston’s hand and kisses his knuckles. “Okay, I accept your apology,” he says, smiling. 

Even in the dark Auston can see how beautiful that smile is, how lovely and endearing and earnest and in that moment it dawns on him that soon Mitch’s smile will exist only in his memory. Soon Auston won’t be able to touch him or talk to him or tell him how his day went, and he doesn’t really know how he’s supposed to go on without him.

“What am I gonna do when you’re gone?” Auston doesn't even care how rough his voice came out, how small and pathetic.

“I won’t be gone,” Mitch says softly. “Not really. I will be here”—touching Auston’s temple—“and here”—pressing his palm against Auston’s heart where Auston links their fingers together—“and when you finally lift the Cup, I will be with you then. I will be with you when you win the Cup a third time and I will be with you when you die at a hundred and two, and I will be waiting for you on the other side, wherever it is I’m going, because you’re my soulmate and we’re meant to be together.” Mitch leans in to kiss the tip of Auston’s nose. “Until then you’re going to play the best hockey of your life and make me proud.”

The noise that comes out of Auston is half-sob, half-chuckle. “I don’t want to live until a hundred and two.”

With the pad of his thumb, Mitch dries the wetness that has collected on the corner of Auston’s eye. “No?” he says. “How does a hundred sound?”

Auston promised himself he’s not going to cry in front of Mitch, but there’s no stopping his tears now. The least he could do is cover his face with his arms so that Mitch won’t see the sniveling mess that he is. Fucking alcohol. 

Mitch doesn’t say anything the whole time, just rides it out with him while running his fingers through Auston’s greasy hair. 

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” Mitch says sometime later. He lets Mitch lead him upstairs, and he doesn’t let go of his hand even when they’re tucked in bed and drifting off to sleep.

**x**

“Pinch it.”

“I’m pinching it!”

“Hold it tighter.”

“Ow! Not too hard. That hurts.”

“It’s still coming.”

“Oh god oh god oh god what do we do?”

“Jesus, Dylan, calm your tits!”

“It’s not usually this bad!”

“Mitch, look at me. Does it hurt? Do we need to go to the hospital?”

“Nah. It’ll pass.”

“Babe it’s been an hour.”

“It’ll _pass_.”

Three hours before, at seven o’clock after dinner, they were watching _Friends_ in front of the TV. Chris had just left, and they were alone in the house again, content to pass time like that. Mitch was curled up next to Auston on the couch, his knees drawn up toward his body. Dylan was sprawled across an armchair, legs dangling from the armrest. At one point during the episode where Phoebe tries to give away her three-dimensional painting to Monica, Mitch sneezed.

“Bless you,” Auston mumbled against Mitch’s hair. Then a heartbeat later, he felt Mitch stiffen beside him. 

When Auston glanced down at him, his eyes widened. The first thing he saw was the splatter of blood down Mitch’s front, an angry shade of red against the white cable knit sweater. There was so much blood it looked like someone stabbed him right in the chest. 

Mitch straightened up on the couch, which prompted more blood to gush out from his nose and down his lips. Until that moment Auston had never seen a nosebleed that intense, which was why it took him a few seconds to snap into action, pinching Mitch’s nose and helping him lean forward.

Dylan must have seen the whole thing because a moment later he was at their side holding a box of tissues, dabbing all the blood from Mitch’s face and sweater. Apparently the nosebleeds were a regular occurrence, Dylan explained, and that it wasn’t a cause for alarm.

Mitch, for his part, didn’t seem all that concerned, but he was a little upset for ruining his sweater. A few minutes later they continued watching _Friends_ , with Auston’s thumb and forefinger holding the soft part of Mitch’s nose as they waited for the bleeding to stop.

“Would you check it?” Mitch said after fifteen minutes, referring to his nose.

Auston let go of his nostrils, craning his neck down to inspect it. There was nothing. Then slowly the blood came, at first only a tiny rivulet, but then it was followed by a thick dark worm crawling down his nostril. Auston plucked a sheet of tissue and dabbed the blood away. 

“It’s still coming,” he said.

A few minutes later there was a mound of bloody tissues on the table. The tissues weren’t cutting it, so Auston asked Dylan to cover for him while he grabbed a couple of towels from the washroom.

And so they went about it in rotation, Dylan and Auston, holding Mitch’s nose. They were all still turned toward the TV, but neither Auston nor Dylan waspaying attention to it anymore. Mitch, on the other hand, was still laughing at the TV, every so often dislodging the fingers on his nose.

When they reached the forty minute mark, Dylan removed the towel to check on Mitch’s nose.

“I think we got it,” Dylan said.

“Really?” Mitch said, looking up at him.

“Nothing’s coming.”

Mitch started to grin, but then Dylan’s face twisted in a pained expression as the blood came again. It was dark and dotted with black specks. Scabs, Auston assumed. After a few seconds the blood turned a lighter shade of red.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this, Marns.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

Mitch waves it aside. “Guys, you’re psyching yourselves out. I feel just fine.”

“I don’t trust your judgment,” Dylan said as he shook the stiffness in his arm.

Auston took over holding Mitch’s nose then. They gave it another ten minutes, after which Auston lifted the towel to check. Mitch’s nose was turning purple. The blood was also the same light shade of red still, and it was thin.

“Babe, it’s not clotting,” Auston said.

“I know.”

“You _know_?”

“It’s kind of a given when you have leukemia.”

“We have to do something.”

“Yeah, nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“It will stop.”

“But it’s not stopping.”

“Wait a while.”

“We’ve been waiting a while.”

“I’m _fine_. Don’t worry.”

So now an hour has passed, Mitch is still bleeding on his mother’s couch, and he refuses to go anywhere. By this time they have completely ruined two towels, and it looks like they’re about to ruin a third.

“I’m gonna get fresh towels,” Auston says, getting up from the couch. He goes to the laundry room where Dylan meets him not a minute later.

“I’m freaking out,” Auston tells him. “What should we do?”

“We have to call the doctor, right? And his parents?”

“Mitch won’t like that.”

“I know but we can’t have him bleeding out on the couch.” Dylan makes a strangled noise. “Fuck it, I’m calling the hospital,” he says, then leaves the room.

Auston is still holding the soaked towel in his hands, so he throws it onto the wash bin where it lands with a splat. When he looks down at his hands, he realizes that they’re shaking. Mitch’s blood is warm and wet against his palms. He’s not afraid of blood, but there’s something about knowing it’s Mitch’s blood that makes him weak in the knees.

Auston washes the blood off and grabs a fresh towel.

“I think we should go in,” Dylan is saying when Auston returns to the living room.

“No.”

“Marns, you can’t stay here. You’re bleeding.”

“Come on, Mitch.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Jesus, Marns, this isn’t the time to be stubborn.”

“But they’ll keep me there if I go in.”

“Well we can’t let you bleed to death here.”

“I can’t die of a bloody nose.”

“Actually, you could. I called the hospital and the nurse said we should go in and have you checked out. They’re expecting us.”

“You _what_?”

“Mitch, please?”

“No.”

“Why are you being like this?”

“If I go in, I’ll never leave.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

“I won’t! I know I won’t. I know it.”

“Yes, you will.”

“We’ll get you out.”

“Yeah, we’ll sneak you out if we have to.”

Mitch pauses. “You promise?”

“I swear,” Dylan says, running a finger under Mitch’s nose and smearing the blood all over his hand. “See? Blood oath.” Then they proceed to shake on it. It’s pretty disgusting, actually.

Then they both turn to Auston. When he catches Dylan’s eye, Dylan cocks his head toward Mitch in a gesture that says ‘go on.’ Auston follows suit.

“One more condition.”

Dylan groans. “What?”

“Please don’t call my parents.”

Auston and Dylan exchange uncertain looks.

“It’s their first real vacation in forever, and I don’t want to spoil it for them.Let them unwind and have fun while they can. They’re arriving in two days anyway. No need to worry them.”

Dylan sighs. “All right, fine, let’s go.”

Auston grabs Mitch’s duffle coat, a blanket, and also Mitch’s computer in casehe needs some entertainment in the hospital. He lets Dylan drive while he stays with Mitch on the backseat holding his nose with a towel.

At the hospital they end up cauterizing Mitch’s nose to stop the bleeding. As it turns out, his nosebleed could have been fatal; another hour or so and he would have gone into shock. Auston doesn’t know who the doctor attending to them is and what kind of a doctor she is, but Mitch and Dylan likes her, and she seems a pleasant enough person. After she’s done with the procedure, which seems relatively fast and straightforward, she says that they can’t have any more bleeding. Any bleeding could be the end. Mitch promises to stay away from sharp objects.

“Now,” she says, flipping over her charts, “while I don’t see anything alarming in your test results, I do want to keep you here for night and see how you’re doing tomorrow.”

Mitch is not happy with that news, but Auston squeezes his hand to remind him of their oath.

The overnight stay turns into two days, because they do end up seeing something wrong with his platelets. It isn’t a comfortable two days for everyone involved. Mitch is irritable the whole time, and jittery, and no amount of distraction calms him down, but neither Dylan nor Auston ever leave his side. 

And just like they promised, they do get Mitch out, and it involves neither stealth nor duplicity.

**x**

The Leafs are playing the Red Wings on New Year’s Eve, which sucks because Auston wanted to spend it with Mitch. If it’s any consolation, they’re at least playing on home ice. He’d just have to drive back really fast after the game so they can welcome the new year together.

The game itself isn’t exactly of note. Neither team scores until the second period, when Mo puts in a goal on a power play at 10:35 and Justin Abdelkader shoots one behind the Leafs’ net with 5:01 left on the clock. Early in the third period Henrik Zetterberg scores, deflecting a shot by Mike Green, giving them a 2–1 lead. 

The Leafs have trouble penetrating the Red Wings’ defense for most of the third period, and when they are finally down to the last couple of minutes, Auston is almost glad that the game is ending, but then Brownie shots and scores and they head into overtime.

Auston is a little annoyed.

Heading out of the ice for the intermission, it occurs to him that he really doesn’t want to be there playing. He hates himself for even admitting it, but it’s the truth. He’s also jealous that most of the guys’ partners and families are in the arena watching, giving them plenty of time to celebrate the evening together. Meanwhile, he has no one there.

When they finally head into overtime, Auston vows to finish the game as fast as he can. He doesn’t know how he’ll make that happen, but he will try. 

The opportunity comes a minute and five seconds into the period, when Reemer passes Auston the puck close to the center ice. Reemer zips up the center where Auston hits him with a pass, drawing Niklas Kronwall to him. Reemer passes the puck back to him in front of the net. Not giving himself a chance to second guess himself, Auston fires a quick wrist shot toward the Red Wings’ net. The shot goes past Petr Mrazek and the goal horn blares.

Auston lets out a celebratory howl, which is then drowned out by the roar of the home crowd. Soon he finds himself being swallowed in a sea of limbs and sticks. 

The upside to shooting the winning goal is, well, winning. The downside of it isthat he is forced to do the post-game media, and it lasts longer than he’d like. At first he doesn’t mind fielding questions from the reporters, but after ten minutes passes and the questions still keep coming, he struggles to keep the annoyance out of his face and voice.

Once he’s finally let go, Auston wastes no time showering and suiting up. He quickly wishes the guys a happy new year, and then ducks out of the room.

Auston tries not to break a dozen traffic rules on the drive to Mitch’s house—not an easy feat since there’s barely any cars on the road now. He has no idea what the speed limit is, but he’s definitely breaking it the way he’s going, but it’s still not fast enough for him.

In the end he welcomes the new year in his car. He knows without looking at the clock that it’s midnight because all around him the sky is suddenly ablaze with reds and yellows and oranges and the occasional blues and greens and pinks. Some fireworks are closer, some are farther away, but Auston hears their muffled explosions inside his car.

Auston’s heart sinks a little. 

He had promised Mitch that he’d be there to give him a New Year’s kiss, and Mitch seemed so happy at the prospect. Yet another chance he missed out on. Now it’s five minutes after twelve and there’s still a couple miles ahead of him.

It’s 12:15 when he finally arrives at the Marners' house. Paul greets him at the door and draws him in a hug. “Happy new year, kid,” he says. “He’s on the couch sleeping. He tried waiting up for you, but after the game ended he just fell asleep. You want something to drink?”

“Sure, I’ll have one.”

As Paul disappears into the kitchen, Auston pads over to Mitch’s sleeping form and kneels down next to him. He looks so cozy buried under the mink blanket, his socked-feet poking out.

Returning with a bottle of Molson for Auston, Paul says that Mitch is doped up with morphine, which usually makes him sleepy. Auston asks if Mitch was in pain, and Paul says that his nose has been hurting the whole day but that according to his doctors there’s nothing to worry about.

Outside in the backyard, Chris and Dylan are lighting up jumping jacks while Bonnie tries to record the sparkling lights with her iPhone. Before joining them outside, Paul asks Auston if he’s already eaten, to which Auston replies in the negative. “Grab a plate and help yourself,” Paul says, and then goes outside to wrap an arm around his wife.

Auston’s hungry, but he doesn’t have any appetite, strangely enough, so he just nurses his beer as he watches Mitch sleep. He also sends his family a message wishing them a happy new year before he forgets. Auston doesn’t want to disturb his sleep, but he can’t help touching Mitch’s cheek with the back of his fingers. He pulls back when Mitch’s eyes flicker open. 

For a few seconds, it doesn’t seem as though he knows where he is, who he’s looking at, but then a dopey smile creeps across his face.

“Hey, GQ,” Mitch drawls, looking at Auston’s suit.

Auston blushes. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.

“S’alright.” 

Mitch makes grabby hands toward Auston, and Auston complies by closing the distance between them. He wraps his arms around Mitch and presses his face against his neck.

“Nice goal, by the way,” Mitch says when Auston pulls back.

“Thanks.”

Mitch reaches out to push the stay hair from Auston’s face. “You need a haircut, babe.”

“Yeah?” 

Mitch nods. “Ever thought of getting a mullet? I think you’d look good with a mullet.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

Mitch grins and pushes himself up in a sitting position. “What time is it,” he says, yawning.

“Half past twelve,” Auston says, sitting next to Mitch, who rests his head on Auston’s shoulder. 

Linking their fingers together, Auston follows Mitch’s gaze outside, where Chris and Dylan are laughing as they run around aiming roman candles at each other. Meanwhile, Bonnie is telling them to cut it out, it’s dangerous. Beside her, Paul is laughing hysterically.

After a while, Mitch peers up at Auston and tells him he wants to play too. “You sure?” Auston asks. Mitch nods. Auston tells him he can light a sparkler, but he’s in no way to go near a roman candle. Mitch agrees. Before they go out, Auston pulls a trapper hat down Mitch’s head and wraps a coat around his shoulder.

Chris hands them both a sparkler. Auston lights his and hands it to Mitch, who trades his unlit sparkler. Auston is about to light it when he catches Mitch’s face from the corner of his eyes. The shadows on Mitch’s face dance as the light from his sparkler flash and flicker before him. Even in the dimness of the backyard, it’s hard to miss the child-like wonder on his boyish face. Auston lights his own but his eyes stay on Mitch’s face.

Later Dylan enlists both his and Chris’s help lighting the last of the firework fountains so they would all go at once. At the count of three, they ignite the fuse together and then steps back once they’re aflame.

The sparks come slowly at first, hissing and sputtering, but a second later the flames gush out, shooting up from the cone-shaped receptacle and illuminating the whole yard so brightly that Auston’s vision momentarily blurs.

Mitch slips his arms under Auston’s suit jacket and presses their bodies together. Wrapping his arms around Mitch’s neck, Auston leans down and kisses him. Mitch is so warm against him that he wants nothing more than to soak all of him in and never let him go.

“Happy New Year, Mitch,” Auston says. Auston tries not to think about it, but he realizes that these words will be rendered meaningless next year, because Mitch won’t be around to hear it, and he doubts he's going to be happy next year, or any other year, without Mitch.

Mitch smiles up at him, but sadly, reading the thoughts running through Auston’s head. “Happy New Year, Auston.” 

**x**

One of the most distressing changes about Mitch’s health is his frequent mood swings. These days he’s taken to isolating himself in his room, refusing to be with or talk to anyone for hours on end. And whenever he does leave his room, he spends most of it being deliberately combative and perverse.

Paul and Bonnie take it all in stride. Chris calls him out on his bullshit, refusing to give his brother a free pass at being an asshole. Even Auston gets shit every so often, but he doesn’t mind all that much.

Dylan is a different story altogether.

For some reason Mitch is being particularly nasty to him and Auston can’t figure out why. Dylan tries to roll with Mitch’s verbal punches, but he isn’t doing a good job pretending it doesn’t bother him.

One evening, after the Leafs lose to the Devils in a shootout, Auston arrives at the Mitch’s house and finds Dylan out on the porch alone. His eyes are red and puffy. He’s trying—and failing—to mask his sniffles. Auston doesn't pry, but he does sit next to him on the porch swing and keeps him company. 

Later he tells Auston that he and Mitch had gotten into an argument. 

It happened after dinner, when he tried getting Mitch’s to take his meds—an opportunity that Mitch then took to pick a fight. They haven’t gotten into a real fight since they were young teens, and Dylan wasn’t keen on starting one now, so while Mitch hurled insults at him, going so far as insinuating he was an annoying, good-for-nothing asshole, he just ignored it for the most part. When it became clear that Dylan was refusing to participate, Mitch’s anger boiled over.

“What, you’re just gonna stand there and take it?” Mitch said. “You afraid of hurting my feelings, you fuck?”

“I can if you want.”

“Then do it, asshole, fight me. Oh, that’s right, you won’t. You’re scared of losing—because that’s what you are. You’re a fucking loser. That’s why you’re stuck playing college hockey.”

Dylan froze. “You know what,” he said, “I’ll come back when you’re done having a bitch fit.”

“Fuck you. I don’t need you here.”

If Auston isn’t hearing this from Dylan, he won’t even believe Mitch would say something like that. It so troubles Auston he decides right then and there that he’s going to get to the bottom of all this. Inside he finds Mitch on the couch watching television.

Auston plops down next to him. “I need to talk to you,” he says, waiting for Mitch to acknowledge his presence. “Can you turn that off, please? I’m trying to start a conversation here.”

Mitch switches the TV off with the remote and turns to him. “What’s up?”

“Can you tell me what your deal is with Dylan? He’s outside looking very upset.”

Mitch lowers his gaze and starts playing with his sweater. “It’s not my fault he’s such a baby,” he says petulantly.

Auston sighs. “He told me what happened earlier,” he says. “You said some really cruel things. You’re being very mean to him, and not just today.”

Mitch pouts but doesn’t reply.

“Did he do something?”

Mitch just shakes his head. For a moment Auston thinks he’s not going to get anything out of him, but then Mitch’s chin starts to quiver. “I didn’t mean any of it."

“Dylan knows you didn’t mean it, but why would you say those things?” Auston takes Mitch’s face in his hands. “What’s wrong, Mitch?”

When he glances up at Auston, his eyes are glassy. “I just…I thought it’d be easier for him to let me go if he hated me,” he says, sniffling. “We hated each other before, so I thought it made sense, you know?”

Auston drops a kiss on Mitch’s forehead. “Oh, Mitch. Do you really want that after all this time?”

Mitch pauses. “No.”

“You can stab him in the chest and he’d find way to forgive you.”

“Is he mad at me?”

“No. But you still owe him an apology. It wasn’t nice what you did.” 

Shrugging out of his parka, Auston drapes it over Mitch’s shoulder and jerks his head toward the door. 

Auston doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he does want to make sure Mitch goes through with the apology, so he lingers awhile. Their voices are faint from where he stands, but he does hear fragments of their conversation, hear phrases like “sorry I said all those hurtful things…” and “you didn’t sound sorry when you were throwing insults at my face…” and “you _are_  a loser, but you're _my_ loser, and I'm a loser too, we’re the biggest losers I know, that why you’re my best friend…” and “I kinda do suck at hockey…” and “no, you don’t…” and “whatever…” and “self-deprecation isn’t a good look on you…” and “whatever…” and “I love you, you know that right…” and “I love you too, but if you think you can get rid of me now you’re wrong, we’re bros for life and I will always have your back…”

At that point Auston realizes he’s heard enough and leaves his spot.

**x**

Mitch continues to deteriorate as the new year progresses. He starts spending most days resting, and he finds the most routine tasks exhausting, like brushing his hair and walking to the fridge to get a glass of water. It’s gotten so bad that they have to move him to the guest room downstairs so he won’t have to climb to the second floor.

A routine checkup reveals that his levels are plummeting. They do a couple of transfusions to keep the fatigue in check, but Dr. Zimmer says that if his platelets don’t respond to the transfusion they would have to stop giving him chemo, which would only do more damage at that point. Once the chemo stops, death would be imminent. At that point arrangements would have to be taken care of, and by “arrangements” he means figuring out Mitch’s funeral plans, choosing the casket, acquiring all legal forms and documentation, publishing an obituary, the whole shebang. Dr. Zimmer continues to elaborate on these arrangements but Auston’s mind is stuck on the part about the caskets. Would Mitch need one? Mitch had told him, in a post-coital daze, that he wanted to be cremated, his ashes put in a Tupperware, and left on the curb for recycling. Auston doesn’t know if he was joking or not, so he makes a mental note to ask about it. Anyway, about the casket, he supposes they would still need one for the wake, but then what? Do they burn it with the corpse, too? Auston doesn’t think so. Maybe they can donate it. Surely a lot of people are in need of caskets. Caskets are goddamn expensive, more expensive than he thought. Or maybe instead of buying a casket they can just rent one. But then a rented casket sounds so wrong. They can’t put Mitch in a casket that has been used by countless dead people before him. Well, it doesn’t matter. Auston has a shit ton of money sitting in the bank. He’ll buy Mitch the grandest casket his money can buy. Maybe then can even go about choosing one together when they get back home later.

They do take Mitch off the chemo a week later, because despite his red blood cells hanging around 5/6 thanks to the transfusion, his platelets are low and all his white blood cells are gone. He would still receive transfusions every other week or once a week depending on how he feels, but there’s a limit to how many he can get due to possible complications. 

Auston has read all about it.

As leukemia progresses, the frequency of transfusions can increase up to two or three times a week, but that’s not really a good thing. It’s the opposite: it’s a sign that the patient is likely to live a few weeks at most. Soon the transfusions will have to stop altogether and in a few weeks they will all have to deal with Mitch’s death.

**x**

Auston had feared that once Mitch is off the chemo he would stop being Mitch, his eyes would sink, his skin would thin out and turn transparent, and he would stop recognizing the faces in front of him—but none of that happens. Mitch tells him he even feels better now because it felt like chemo was sucking the life out of him. Nevertheless, Dr. Zimmer felt it necessary that a hospice nurse come to the house to supervise Mitch’s care.

The hospice nurse becomes a regular fixture in the household. He’s there almost everyday now, and he’s on call 24 hours a day 7 days a week. He’s in charge of administering Mitch’s pain meds, his transfusions, and general physical therapy, but he tries to help out any way he can and everyone really appreciates his help.

Everyone except Dylan.

“I don’t trust him.”

“Why not?” Auston asks.

“Well, for one, he’s very young. He’s like our age, can you believe that shit? I don’t want a novice looking after Marns.”

“I hear he’s really smart, very talented. Graduated top of his class, youngest student from his university to ever become a registered nurse.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Dylan says. “You can’t trust people who are like super intelligent. Sure they have super high IQs but they’re all psychopaths underneath. I mean, serial killers have notoriously high IQs.”

“Sure…”

“Besides,” says Dylan, “look at him. He has the personality of a tree stump! I’ve met octogenarians who have more charm than—”

“Hey, guys.”

Dylan freezes.

“Hey, Connor,” Auston says, nodding at the newcomer.

“May I join you?”

“Of course, man,” says Auston.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” Connor says, sitting on the spot next to Dylan.

“We’re fine. Right, Dylan?”

“Yeah, lovely.”

“Do you want a beer?” Auston offers, since they’re having one now and it seems impolite not to ask.

“Oh, it’s fine. I don’t drink.”

“Not even a little?”

“Nah,” Connor says, shrugging. “I don’t like the taste.”

“You don’t drink it for the taste,” Dylan replies, taking a healthy swig from his bottle, as if to emphasize his point.

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against alcohol. With proper exercise and a healthy diet it can even be good for you. I just don’t get much pleasure out of it, I guess.”

Dylan shoots Auston a look which he guesses is meant to say, _See what I mean?_

“What about you, man?” Auston asks. “Tell us about your day.”

“Yeah, because more talk of sickness and death is what we need right now,” Dylan mutters.

Instead of taking offense, Connor honest-to-god laughs. “I had a pretty good day, actually. I helped paint my 90-year-old patient’s nails. She keeps forgetting my name but she likes it when I do her nails. And then after that I was forced to listen to a weird post-rock DJ set because another patient’s son is a DJ and he wanted to know what I thought about it. Mitch is my last patient today. He’s a little out of it, but he seems to be doing okay.”

“How many patients do you have in a day?” Auston asks.

“It used to be six, but after I took Mitch on they cut it down to three. When I was just starting out I had sixteen at most, but then I had help from other nurses on my team.”

Auston doesn’t want to push the subject, much less dwell on it, but for some reason his curiosity gets the better of him. “Have you ever grown attached to a patient and then watch them die?”

“Yeah, all the time. As a healthcare professional you try not to be attached, but when they’re at that stage in life, they’re vulnerable, you see them for who they really are and it’s easy to form a bond with them. It’s always sad when someone that I’ve gotten close to dies, but mostly I’m just relieved I get to help them die comfortably.” Connor pauses then, momentarily lost in a memory of someone or something. “These people in hospice,” he continues, looking down at his hands, “they’re in constant pain. More than you can ever imagine. Knowing that I’ve helped them finally be at peace and not hurt anymore, that’s the most rewarding thing about what I do.”

Auston can’t even imagine what it’s like to be in Connor’s shoes, having to deal with all that death on a regular basis, and firsthand, too. Auston tells him as much.

“Death…it’s not as bad as people make it out to be,” Connor says, smiling. “I’m not saying it’s not sad. It is. I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you, but for me death is a celebration of life. It sounds contrary but that’s what it is, what it should be—like birthdays but without the celebrant. And I’m not gonna be in hospice for the rest of my career.”

Dylan is staring at Connor with a look on his face that is akin to wonder, but when Connor turns his head, Dylan immediately schools his expression to a more neutral one.

"Have you ever experienced anything paranormal?” Dylan says after a while.

Connor chuckles. “Not personally, no, but I’ve heard many stories, like this one time, a colleague’s patient died in his room with the whole family there. And then a few minutes later the phone rings and the caller ID said it was from the patient’s cellphone. He didn’t have a cellphone.”

“Get out of here!” Dylan punches Connor’s chest playfully.

“It’s true,” says Connor, touching his chest where Dylan hit him. “When my colleague returned to the hospital she was visibly shaken and had a ghastly look on her face. She wouldn’t lie about that.”

**x**

Dylan hoped Mitch wouldn’t notice. In fact, they all hoped that Mitch wouldn’t notice, but with Chris moving back in, Connor entering the picture, and Auston being there whenever he can, which is often, the house feels a lot fuller than it really is, and Dylan’s constant presence there is bound to draw attention sooner or later. 

Mitch comments on it one afternoon while he and Dylan are cuddling on the couch, goofing around on Snapchat while Auston is peeling clementines and handing the peeled wedges to Mitch. 

“I’m gonna miss seeing your stupid face every day once you go back to school,” Mitch says, chuckling at the filtered selfie they’re taking.

Auston glances at Dylan's direction. 

Dylan looks stricken, unable to respond. Eventually he sighs, shoulders sagging. “Yeah…about that.”

Mitch lifts his head from Dylan’s shoulder and stares at him with suspicion. “What?” he asks slowly.

“I quit school.”

Mitch’s mouth falls open. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Dylan shakes his head. “I’m not,” he says. “Look, it’s no big deal—”

“Why did you quit?”

Dylan is visibly discomfited, reluctant to answer.

“I wanted to be here for you,” he says.

“No,” Mitch chuckles incredulously. “No no no no no that’s unacceptable. Call the registrar now and tell them you changed your mind. Right now, Dyl! I’m not fucking around.”

“Too late,” he says. “They already approved my LOA last week.”

“Are you insane?! I—I can’t believe you’d even think to do something like that, Dylan!” 

Mitch is hyperventilating now, face red and nostrils flared. He looks like he wants to punch Dylan in the face, but the thing with Mitch is that instead of lashing out, he cries when he gets angry, and soon he’s bawling his eyes out.

Dylan pulls Mitch against him. Mitch resists at first, but he eventually lets Dylan wrap him in a hug. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dylan says, rubbing circles on Mitch’s back. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But you’ll lose your scholarship,” he mumbles against Dylan’s chest.

“I can always reapply next term.”

Mitch sobs. “Your parents probably hate me now.”

“No, they don’t,” says Dylan. “I mean, they’re not thrilled I’ll be a little bit behind, but they understand. Besides, school’s always gonna be there, and you’re more important to me.”

Mitch literally cries himself to sleep against Dylan, his arms clutching Dylan’s torso grows lax and slips. Auston has to carry him back to bed so he could sleep properly.

As he tucks Mitch in, Auston can’t help but replay in his mindi what Dylan said. _School’s always gonna be there, and you’re more important to me_. Its determination struck a chord in Auston, causing the feelings of guilt, the guilt that has brewing inside of him for the last couple of weeks, to resurface.

If Dylan can take some time off from school, then why can’t he do the same with hockey? His soulmate is expiring right before his eyes and he’s still playing? When the front office told him a six-week leave of absence is on the table if he wants it, why did he say he’d think about it instead of accepting? Mitch can die tomorrow or next week and he chooses to share what little time they have with hockey? What’s the fuck is wrong with him?

Auston is about to send the front office an e-mail saying he’s taking them up on their offer and that he’ll be on leave effective immediately when he feels Mitch’s hand settle on top of his on the bed.

“Don’t do it,” Mitch says, his eyes pleading. “Please?”

Auston touches Mitch’s cheek. “I have to. I _need_ to. If anything happens to you and I’m not there…I won’t be able to forgive myself.”

“But I won’t let you put your life on hold for me, Auston.”

“It’s not like I won’t ever play again. I’m only gonna be out for a couple weeks.”

“No, I forbid you,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re not doing it. End of discussion.” Mitch tries to appear intimidating, but lying there all dazed and sleep-stupid he doesn’t quite hit the mark.

“Mitch, you don’t understand.”

“I understand plenty. You all think…you all think you’re doing what’s best for me, and that you’re making things better for me but…but you’re not.” Mitch pauses to draw a deep breath. “I never see dad anymore because he’s has to work all the time now. We have so much bills to pay Chris has to help out. He even turned down a good work opportunity because he wants to be near me. Now Dylan had to leave school too. All of it because of me. Do you know how shitty that makes me feel?”

Auston does, because he feels it now. 

If he does what Mitch says, he will hate himself. If doesn’t, Mitch will. It doesn’t matter which choice he makes; he’s screwed either way.

“I don’t want to be a burden to anyone anymore, especially not to you.”

“You are not a burden, Mitch. Nobody thinks that.”

“But that’s what it feels like to me, don’t you see?” Mitch squeezes Auston’s hand. “Please, Auston? It will make me really happy knowing you’re out there kicking ass and doing what you love. You want me to be happy, right?”

Auston sighs. “Of course.”

Mitch gives him a weak, sleepy smile. “Then win games for me.”

**x**

A couple of days before Auston has to fly to Pittsburg, they all notice a shift in Mitch’s mood. 

For one thing, he has been eating a lot. There’s nothing he doesn’t eat these days: liverwurst, pearl barely soup, cretons, lentil stew, instant ramen, pop tarts, corned beef hash, Cheetos—if it’s on the table, he’ll eat it. 

For another, he’s quite literally bouncing off the walls. At first they thought it was from the new drugs he’s taking, but Connor said it was unlikely. Mitch is beaming, shining, as if lit from within. It’s the most animated he’s been for months, and although Auston will admit that it’s a little strange to see him this way, like a child on a sugar high, he’s also grateful for it, because when Mitch is in high spirits, so is everyone.

He’s also a lot more alert now, which may explain his sudden interest in Dylan’s soulmate. “I know who it is,” he tells Auston one afternoon as they sit on the porch swing, waiting for Winston to do his thing.

“Really?”

“Fairly positive,” Mitch says, nodding. “I didn’t think much of it at the time because morphine makes me loopy, but now that I think about it it all makes sense.”

Apparently, while Connor was flushing Mitch’s port with saline a couple of days ago, Mitch had glimpsed Connor’s mark as he took his gloves off. It was there, on the inside of his wrist, a lopsided “DWS.”

“Do you think they know it?” Auston asks.

“For sure,” he says, turning to Auston. “There’s no way they don’t know by now. Was there any doubt when you saw me?” 

Auston shakes his head.

“The thing is, though, Dylan’s being so weird around Connor. Have you noticed? He refuses to even be in the same room with him.”

Auston has. 

The other day, when Dylan learned that Connor was coming over to give Mitch his transfusion, Dylan said he had forgotten to feed his pet fish and then rushed out of the house. He doesn’t have a pet fish.

“I think we should do something about it,” says Mitch. “You know, nudge them in the right direction.”

Auston quirks an eyebrow. “How? You can’t even get them in the same place at the same time.”

“I have an idea.”

For some reason, the idea involves a game of Monopoly. As it turns out Dylan is fiercely competitive when it comes to Monopoly, which is why Mitch never bothered to properly learn the game—until now, that is.

So when Mitch suggests that they play it, Dylan narrows his eyes at him. “You don’t know how Monopoly.”

“That’s why you have to teach me,” Mitch says. “I can’t die and not know how to play a simple board game.”

“It’s not a just a simple board game, Mitchell. It’s more than that. It’s a representation of the human condition itself. You’ll see. I’ll show you.”

Dylan sets the board on the center table and proceeds to teach Mitch the rules of the game, teaches him about buying properties and paying rent, about income taxes and free parking, about mortgages and going to jail. It’s been ages since Auston played Monopoly, and the last time ended with the whole board upended on the living room floor and his parents not talking to each other for a week.

Once Mitch has a working knowledge of the game, they decide to play it for real, and as if on cue the doorbell rings. Mitch jumps to his feet to get the door.

“Perfect timing,” Auston hears Mitch say from the doorway. “We’re just about to play Monopoly. Wanna join us?”

“I love Monopoly,” says Connor’s voice.

Dylan stiffens when Mitch and Connor walks into the living room, his eyes fixed on the board. When Connor greets him, Dylan only nods. Before they begin, Connor takes Mitch’s blood pressure and temperature because “I’d be remiss in my duty if I didn’t, you know?”

The only instruction Mitch had given Auston was that he try to lose as soon as he can, which isn’t hard since he’s never been at good at the game. After thirty minutes, he declares bankruptcy. 

For his part, Mitch seems to be really getting into it.

“Why am I in jail again?” Mitch says.

“Because you rolled doubles for a third time,” says Dylan.

“So what?”

“You go to jail.”

“That’s unfair.”

“You think life is fair?”

“I don’t want to go to jail. That’s so arbitrary.”

“That’s the rules.”

“No, I think I’m good in here. I have a house here, see?”

“I don’t fucking care, Marns! Put yourself back in jail!”

Mitch does, and after he pays the $50 to get out of jail, he lands on Connor’s boardwalk with hotels on it, which means he has to pay him $2000. He’s $500 short. So he throws in the towel.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m taking a nap,” says Mitch, getting to his feet.

Dylan, eyes still on the board, dismisses Mitch with a wave of the hand. Connor briefly glances up and tells Mitch to holler if he needs him.

“Are you sure that was the right thing to do?” Auston says once they’re in the confines of Mitch’s room. “In my experience Monopoly usually ends in fury and misery.”

As if the universe heard Auston, they suddenly hear Dylan’s outraged voice through the door. 

“Landing on Free Parking doesn't give you any reward whatsoever! Put that money back right now.”

“Yes it does!” Connor replies. “You receive an automatic $500 for Free Parking!”

“Whoever taught you that has played you for a fool because that’s obviously not in the rules.”

“You’re lying! Give me the instructions.”

Auston turns to Mitch, who simply beams at him. 

“I think they’re getting along swimmingly,” he says.

That evening Bonnie invites Connor to stay for dinner, to which he politely declines. He better report back, he says, and he’ll just grab something to eat at the hospital. He’s obviously unsure of his presence there: he and Dylan haven’t spoken a word to each other since Connor had beaten him in the game that lasted four and a half hours. It’s clear he doesn’t want to incur any more of Dylan’s displeasure.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Dylan says. “Stay. Why you’d even choose to eat hospital food is beyond me.”

Connor’s expression brightens, a smile slowly creeping across his face. “Alright,” he says. “I guess I could stay for dinner.”

**x**

Later that evening, before Auston goes back to his apartment, Mitch pulls him aside.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Mitch tells him, reaching out to play with his collar, “with all the people in the house lately, I feel like we haven’t gotten to spend that much time together, and I was wondering if you’d like to spend a whole day with just the two of us before you leave for Pittsburgh.”

“Mitchell Marner, are you trying to get into my pants?”

A bashful smile spreads on his face. “Was I too obvious?” he asks playfully. “No, but for real, though, I just really want to be with you and not have to deal with anyone for a day.”

Auston rests both his arms on Mitch’s shoulders. “I like the sound of that,” he says. “Actually, why don’t you go get your stuff now and ask Connor what you’d need. I’ll talk to Bonnie.”

**x**

Mitch is quiet on the drive to Auston’s place, his mind obviously elsewhere. He’s holding Auston’s hand on his lap, but his eyes are on some fixed point in the distance, probably on the Toronto skyline glittering against the dark night sky. Auston can’t quite get a read on him, but he thinks maybe he’s exhausted so he leaves Mitch to his thoughts.

Auston’s apartment isn’t spotless when they get there, because for the past few weeks all he’s ever done there is sleep and change, and he hasn’t had time for upkeep, but Mitch still walks around the apartment as if every corner and every space held some special interest, as if he’s trying to memorize how everything looks, committing it to memory, which is strange since Auston’s apartment is spare at best.

At one point Mitch just stands in the middle of the room and takes everything in. When Auston finally asks him what he’s doing, Mitch gives him a fond but doleful smile.

“Just trying to imagine what our lives would’ve looked like if things were different,” Mitch says, “how different this place would be. For starters, I’d get rid of that black leather bench that doesn't coordinate with the rest of the furniture.”

“Don’t mock it. I happen to like that couch, and that came with the apartment.”

Mitch grins. “It would have been nice to build a home with you, maybe not exactly in this place, but someplace for ourselves where we can raise babies.”

“Babies, huh?”

“I know it sounds crazy coming from a twenty year old, but I’ve always wanted to have a family.”

“I don’t think that’s crazy at all.”

“I used to want three kids,” says Mitch. “Two boys a girl. Growing up I kept thinking how nice it would be to have a baby sister Chris and me could care for, but now I want a lot, a dozen mini me’s running around with their chubby limbs flailing. It would be hell to pay for college but imagine—there won’t ever be a dull moment in the house: the chaos at the dinner table, the shouting and bickering and fighting, the mini van crammed with tiny bodies and then eventually a squad of teenagers who refuse to be kissed by me. I want all of it.”

Auston imagines it, and thinks that he wants all of it, too, and so would his mom, no doubt. His mom would absolutely love an army of grandkids. Auston smiles to think of it.

“But I can’t have kids anymore,” Mitch continues. “Before I started chemo my doctors said that it would make me infertile. They gave me an option to bank my sperm, but at that time I was a teenager and having kids was the last thing on my mind so I stupidly said no. Now I kinda regret it.”

Auston walks up to Mitch and kisses his forehead. “We have each other,” Auston tells him, because there’s no use dwelling in fantasies. “We have each other and that’s all that matters.”

In bed later that night, with their sweat-slicked bodies pressed against each other, Mitch weeps. It’s a silent, convulsive sobbing which makes Auston stop momentarily, afraid that he’s hurt him somehow. He’s about to ask if they should stop when Mitch reaches for him, hands warm and firm as he strokes Auston to completion. He buries his face in Mitch’s shoulder as he spills on Mitch’s stomach. It’s not long before Mitch follows, finishing inside Auston, twitching as he rides out his climax.

Once he’s caught his breath, Auston gets up from the bed and grabs a wet towelwith which to clean themselves. After, he draws Mitch to his side. “You all right?” he asks.

Mitch nods, kissing Auston’s neck. For a long while, they just lie there soaking each other’s warmth, neither of them speaking.

Auston’s fingers are tangled in Mitch’s hair when Mitch breaks the silence. Auston knows before Mitch opens his mouth that whatever it is he’s about to say is quite serious, because he can almost hear Mitch’s thoughts in his own head, flitting back and forth like humming birds. 

Mitch is lying on top of him, his head right against Auston’s heart, their fingers locked, and there’s a little moonlight from the window on Mitch’s face, and in the split second before he says it, Auston feels Mitch’s fear, not the fear that arises when confronted by something unexpected, but the fear that comes with surrender, and without so much as a preamble Mitch says, “I love you.”

It so catches Auston off guard that his hand freezes in Mitch’s hair, and for a split second he doesn’t know what to say, how to respond.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Mitch says, shaking his head. “You don’t even have to feel the same about me, but I had to say it because I couldn't hold it in anymore, and even saying it doesn't really take care of what I feel, because it’s too much, there’s so much of it that it scares me, and I had to say it because I feel like I won’t have another chance, so I want you to know before you go to sleep that I love you.”

But Auston wants to say it back, say that he loves him, too. He doesn’t want to just accept Mitch’s love and not give anything back. It feels like a lot like thievery somehow.

“I don’t want you to say it because I said it first. I don’t want you to just echo it for my sake,” Mitch says. “All I want is for you to know it, and now that you do…it makes me happy.”

Hooking his finger under Mitch’s chin, Auston tilts Mitch’s face toward his own and slots their mouths together. Auston tries to imprint as much of his heart on that kiss and hopes that Mitch feels it, knows it, whatever it is Auston is feeling now.

**x**

In the morning, Mitch wakes him up with a blow job and a breakfast burrito, respectively—the latter Mitch had made with the help of Auston’s mom, guiding him through the whole process on the phone. The burrito is misshapen, and the potatoes this side of overcooked, but Auston thoroughly enjoys it as much as he does the blow job.

They don’t actually do much for most of the day except stay in Auston’s bed, making out and trading lazy blow jobs until their jaws ache. But later that afternoon, Mitch helps Auston pack his stuff for their away game. Auston is leaving for Pittsburgh tonight. After he drops Mitch off at his house, he’d drive straight to the arena where their shuttle to the airport is waiting.

Although Mitch tries to mask it, Auston sees right through his facade. He looks so sad, and Auston doesn't need a special bond with him to know. Mitch always is whenever Auston has to leave Toronto. Auston wishes there’s something he can do to make the separation more bearable, but he’s tried everything and nothing really helps.

On the drive back to Mitch’s house, a glint appears in Mitch’s eyes. “I want to show you something,” he says, grinning.

Auston has no idea where they’re going, so he follows Mitch’s directions. After a few minutes he notices that they’re driving up a hill and into a quiet residential area. Then Mitch tells him to turn into a street that leads to a small, narrow parking lot sitting next to an huge open field, which apparently is a park. The area is deserted, and the whole field covered with snow, but beyond the field, peeking through the naked and skinny branches of trees, is the cool blue of Lake Ontario.

Mitch is the first one out of the car, and there’s almost a skip to his step as he leads the way. The skies are clear and the sun still shining, but that high up, the cold January wind feels like a slap to the face. Auston braces himself against the wind as he follows Mitch.

As they walk across the snow-covered field, Auston can see the lake opening up before him, and he realizes belatedly that they’re on a cliff. The edge is fenced off with signs that says, “NO TRESPASSING: DANGER” and “offenders will be prosecuted and a fine imposed, Maximum Fine $5000,” but Mitch climbs over it anyway and creeps toward the edge. 

There’s literally nothing to hold on to, and every step forward seems like an unworthy gamble, but Mitch is surefooted and steady. Meanwhile Auston is shaking, shivering and he doesn’t know whether it’s because of the chill or the sudden realization that a misstep could send him toppling a couple hundred feet to his death. If the fall doesn’t kill him, the water surely will.

Mitch turns to face him. “Come on,” he says, grinning.

“Babe, I don’t know how you’re standing all the way out there,” Auston calls out, negotiating the icy terrain under his boots. It feels like the wind can sweep him up anytime.

“Here, take my hand,” he says, extending his hand out to Auston. “There you go. Now take a step toward me.”

Auston tightens his hands around Mitch’s, his eyes fixed on the snow-covered ground that may or may not give out under his weight. There’s only a couple of feet between them, but he can’t get himself to move. “Babe, I can’t,” he says, voice shaking. “I feel like my knees are gonna buckle.”

Mitch chuckles at that. “You’re doing fine, just a couple more steps.”

He inches closer to Mitch, and when he finally reaches his side, his heart almost shoots up to his throat. From his vantage point, he can see how steep the cliff really is, and how high they are.

“Isn’t it so pretty?” says Mitch.

It takes a couple of minutes for his nerves to settle, but once they do Auston starts to appreciate the majesty before him. It’s like stepping into an altogether different world. 

From the top of the cliff, Lake Ontario stretches out as far as the eye can see. Jutting up from the bluffs’ rocky slopes are bald trees whose gnarled and skinny arms are reaching toward the sky. Below the waters are icy, and the shore white with snow. There’s a lone boat sailing at the distance, a small red speck in a sea of blues and whites. With the sweeping landscape in front of him, it’s hard to believe they’re still in Toronto.

“It’s nicer here in the summer,” says Mitch. “It’s a lot greener, and the water looks transparent almost, but this isn’t bad too.”

It isn’t 5:30 yet, but before long the sun starts its descent, turning the once blue sky into a pale shade of indigo and the clouds the color of peach. They don’t actually see the sun setting because they’re on the wrong side of the hemisphere, but they do see the sun bleeding out on the horizon, its golds and reds slipping beyond the lake.

Before the sky dims completely, Mitch turns to him. His cheeks are pink from the cold, but his eyes are filled with warmth and something else Auston can’t quite place.

“I had a grand time, Auston,” says Mitch, his voice breaking a little. “Thank you.”

Auston thinks it weird that Mitch is thanking him when it should be the other way around, but instead he tells him he’s welcome.

“I will miss you. Very much.”

Taking Mitch’s face in his gloved hands, Auston presses his cold, chapped lips against Mitch’s. “We’ll do more fun stuff when I get back, yeah?” 

**x**

Auston is on edge the whole game, full of nervous energy he doesn’t know what to do with. More than once he manages to screw up a perfectly set up play by his linemates, and soon Babcock notices, pulling him from the ice more times than Auston would have liked.

In the end Freddy comes out as the star of the game, blocking all but two of the Penguins’ 57 shots on the net, resulting in a 3–2 win. Despite their win, Austonis disappointed with his performance, and his dismay is only magnified by this restlessness he’s been feeling the whole day.

Auston has trouble sleeping that night, and he chalks it up to the unfamiliar feel of the hotel bed. Freddy doesn’t seem to have the same trouble, though, sprawled on his own bed and already out cold. When sleep does come, it’s fitful and difficult, and it seems like no time passed at all when he’s woken up by his phone trilling under his pillow.

The brightness of his phone is blinding, and he has to squint to be able to read the caller ID. When he sees who it is, his heart picks up.

“Bonnie?” he says, voice rough from disuse.

At first Auston can barely make out anything she’s saying; all that registers is her agitation, compounded in part by her sobbing and heavy breathing, and it does nothing to assuage the lead weight that settles in the pit of Auston’s stomach.

“Bonnie, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Auston says, sitting up now and flicking the bedside lamp on. “Slow down and tell me what’s happened.”

“Mitch has left home,” she cries, slower but no less distraught. “Auston, we can’t find him. We can’t find him anywhere and we’ve already called everyone. We don't know where he is.”

The first thing Auston thinks is that surely Mitch is somewhere, must have gone out for a walk, and that sooner or later he will return. He doesn’t realize the flaw in his logic until Bonnie tells him that Mitch’s car is no longer in the garage. Paul and Chris are already out looking, and Dylan is on his way. 

Auston hops off the bed and proceeds to shove his stuff into his bag. “I’m leaving now,” he tells her, trying hide the panic in his voice. “Call me if anything comes up. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Auston hangs up and makes a quick work of getting dressed.

“Everything all right?” 

Auston turns and sees Freddy’s shadowed figure. He’s propped up on his elbows, and confusion coloring his expression.

“Not really,” Auston replies, slipping into his jacket. “Something’s come up. I need to go back to Toronto.” Something in his face must have conveyed the urgency of the situation, because a look of understanding crosses Freddy’s face. “Can you do me a favor and tell everyone that I—”

“Go,” Freddy says, nodding his head toward the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

Auston slings his bag over his shoulder. “Thank you,” he says and then strides toward the door.

“Auston?” Freddy calls out before he can leave the room. “I hope everything’s okay.”

He tries calling Mitch’s number on the way to the airport, but his phone is either turned off or he’s changed numbers. A spark of irritation blossoms inside him. Out of all the stupid things Mitch could have done, he’s chosen to leave home. It irritates him so much that he seethes through immigration and the entire duration of the flight, which doesn’t last two hours. He can deal with anger. Anger he can manage and work with. As long as he’s angry, nothing can touch him—not fear, not despair, not rejection, nothing.

**x**

A police car is parked in front of Mitch’s house when Auston gets there, so is Dylan’s car. It’s not yet four in the morning and the sky is still dark. 

Bonnie practically flings herself to Auston the moment he walks through the door. Her eyes are bloodshot and her face marred with worry. He asks her if there’s been any news, to which she shakes her head.

The police officers—there are two of them; he doesn’t even bother to remember their names—sits him down and asks him a couple of questions, like was the missing person exhibiting any strange behavior prior to the disappearance (of course he was exhibiting strange behavior; he’s sick for fuck’s sake) and did he intimate any possible places to which he might go (if he had intended to leave, he wouldn’t mention it) and had there been any personal issues between them in the past couple of days (aside from the fact that he’s dying, no there weren’t), which annoys Auston even further because they should be out there looking for instead of asking these stupid questions.

One of the officers also informs Auston that Mitch’s passport is missing, and it’s highly probable that he’s going to or has used it to leave the country, and is there anywhere in the States or abroad that he might be particularly drawn to. Try as he might, Auston can’t give them an answer, at least one that will be of any real help. Nevertheless Auston tells them everything they want to know, and once they seem satisfied with the information they have, they tell everyone what’s going to happen next.

Because Mitch is considered “at-risk”, they’re going to broadcast a “Be on the Look-Out” (BOLO) bulletin to alert the local law enforcement and initiate an immediate search. Once they get back to the station, they’re filing the report and advise the supervisor who will handle the case and then review all the relevant information they have thus far gathered (bank accounts, financial records, cellphone records, etc.). In the meantime, if any of them find anything that may help the search, let them know.

The house is quiet after the officers leave. Auston is afraid to speak, to ask questions, afraid to break whatever fragile calm that is presently in the room. After a while, Bonnie starts to cry. Immediately Chris is by her side, wrapping an arm around her. Paul gets up from the couch and announces that he’s going to make some more coffee.

Dylan is on the couch staring blankly at the carpet but not seeing it. Under his down jacket, he’s still in his sleep clothes, and he’s sporting a wild case of bed hair. “I’m going to kill him,” Dylan says to no one in particular. “I swear to god, I’m going to kill him.”

It kills Auston to see them this way, upset and disconsolate and not being able to offer any help.

He escapes to Mitch’s room. Sitting down on Mitch’s bed, Auston looks around. The officers had already gone through the room, even taking Mitch’s computer with them, but for the most part it appears just as Auston remembers it. Hanging against the wall is the Leafs sweater Babcock had given him. There’s Mitch’s robe draped on the back of a chair. A stack of books on his desk that he hasn’t gotten around to reading yet, and probably never will. Even his pillow still smells like him, smells of the apple shampoo he likes to use. Everywhere there’s an evidence of Mitch, and yet his room feels so empty now, cold, indifferent.

The pill bottles on Mitch’s bedside table catch Auston’s eyes. 

He didn’t even bother to bring them with him. What the fuck was he thinking? He can’t not take his meds, or he will die out there—not a possibility but a certainty. And Auston can’t just stay there and mope. He needs to do something.

“Where you going?” Dylan asks when Auston emerges from Mitch’s room and heads for the door.

“I’m gonna look for him.”

“We’ve already tried searching for him everywhere.”

Auston shakes his head. “I don’t care. But I have to try.”

**x**

Auston drives to the arena first, tries looking for Mitch in the locker room, and when he doesn’t find him there goes to the rink, which is dark and desolate. He doesn’t even know why he thinks Mitch will be there, but he doesn’t want to rule out any possibility. Auston goes to his apartment next, drives around the block looking for any signs of Mitch there. No such luck. Then he tries checking all the detention centers and all the hospitals in Toronto, hoping he’d suddenly find him in one of them. Twice—at Mount Sinai and then again at Toronto General Hospital—the front desk tells him the person he’s looking for has already been reported and if they do admit someone that fits the person’s description they will immediately notify the authorities involved.

The sky is beginning to lighten by the time he leaves Scarborough Hospital, the last place he knows where to look. After that he just drives around as if on autopilot, all the while keeping an eye out for a Mitch. 

The next thing he knows he driving up a familiar hill, through a familiar neighborhood, and parking in a familiar lot sitting next to a familiar field covered with snow.

A flurry descends as Auston leaves his car and trudges toward the narrow cliff. Under the angry, overcast sky, the bluffs look bleak and one-dimensional. The snow, the trees, the clouds and cliffs—everything is grey and flat. Even Lake Ontario seem despondent and sullen. For a moment Auston has to convince himself that this was the same place Mitch and he had been to not three days ago.

At the back of his mind Auston hoped he would find Mitch here, even believed he would find Mitch here, but there’s no one there. It’s just him and his brain that would not keep quiet.

Out there, with the wind biting through his clothes and the fine snow falling all about him, it’s a couple degrees below freezing. Auston scarcely notices it. It feels as though he could blend with the scene, stand there long enough and wait for the snow to fill the hollowed out cavity in his chest.

In his reverie, Auston fails to hear the crunching of snow behind him, and when the voice calls out, he startles. When he turns, Auston sees a uniformed man looking at him funny. A park warden, Auston thinks.

“Everything alright, son?” he calls out, his voice surprisingly kind.

Auston simply stares, and then belatedly nods.

“You sure?” he warden asks, walking closer. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was just looking…for someone.”

“Out here,” he says, “in this weather.”

Suddenly, Auston realizes what it must have looked like he’s trying to do, out there on the edge of the cliff and looking all glum and disconsolate. Auston almost chuckles at the thought. 

“Don’t worry, sir,” he says. “I’m not going to throw myself off this cliff.”

The warden doesn’t seem convinced. “I would feel a lot better if you step away from the edge, though,” he says. “Can you do that?”

Auston takes a step toward the officer, but then stops in his tracks. “Are you going to arrest me?”

The warden laughs. “No,” he says, smiling. “Why would I arrest you? You said it yourself. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

When Auston reaches him, the officer appears more at ease, but instead of leading him to his car, Auston notices that they’re heading toward the patrol car. Auston stills.

“Oh, right,” the warden says. “Look, I’m not arresting you. I give you my word. I just wanted to talk to you for a while. I have some coffee in the car, might help you thaw out a little. You look like a popsicle.”

Inside the warm car, the warden introduces himself to Auston and asks him to just call him by his first name, which is Neil, and then pours out the steaming coffee into the thermos cap. “So are you going to tell me what you’re really doing out here?”

Staring at the coffee in his hands, the steam rising from the dark liquid, Auston decides it wouldn’t hurt to tell him everything, and so he does. 

“I thought he loved me, but he left,” Auston says.

“Ah, love. I’ve been in love once. It’s the worst moment of my life.” Neil chuckles. “Well, it was entirely my fault. We weren’t each other’s soulmates, but I still wanted to be with her.”

Auston finds this strange; he can’t even imagine being with someone that isn’t Mitch. “Did you ever find your soulmate?”

“I don’t have one,” is his nonchalant reply. “I don’t even have a mark. I’m one of those unfortunate fellows who was put into this earth to be alone. It’s a tough pill to swallow, let me tell you, but after forty-five years you get used to it. So consider yourself lucky you even have a soulmate.”

Auston doesn’t feel very lucky, especially not right now, and says just as much.

“Well, that’s love for you,” says Neal. “He probably thought that by leaving he’s doing you a favor. If I were him, I’d do the same.”

“You would?”

“Dying surrounded by loved ones—I think it’s overrated. There’s no dignity in that. I don’t want everyone’s last impression of me to be me at my worst, most decrepit shape. It may be comforting to everyone involved, but not for the one dying, I’ll tell you that much.”

“So you’re saying we should just let him die on his own, probably in the middle of nowhere?”

“Not at all. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t give him grief for leaving. Everyone deserves to die on their own terms.”

The sun has completely risen by the time they finish the coffee, but behind the dark and heavy clouds it is barely visible, and does nothing to dispel the gloom of the day. 

For good measure, Neal follows Auston home, tailing his car the whole drive back, and once there he wishes Auston good luck and that he’ll ask some of his buddies to put up missing persons notices around town.

Exhaustion finally catches up to Auston when he steps into his apartment. His eyes and his limbs and his heart, they all feel so heavy. Auston feels guilty for even considering a nap right now, but figures he’d be able to think clearer with some sleep in him. Shrugging out of his parka, he crawls onto his bed and collapses on it with a great sigh. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes and falling asleep.

**x**

For the second time that day, Auston is woken up by the trilling of his phone.Dylan is calling him.

“We have a lead,” Dylan says. “The police ran his plate and one of the CCTVs at Lewiston–Queenston saw him cross the border at 3AM. They also discovered suspicious activity in his bank records. Did you know he withdrew a shitload of money on the 26th of December?”

“Fuck,” Auston mutters, suddenly connecting the dots.

“I know, right? We were there and he did it right under our noses. God, I feel like an idiot.”

“Hey, don’t blame yourself. There’s no way we could have known.” Auston says, trying to assuage not only Dylan’s guilt but his own; he’s just as culpable. 

“The police says he’s likely been planing it for a while, and he could be anywhere in the fucking Northeastern United States right now. That crafty son of a bitch. I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Let’s talk when I get there. I’m going right now.”

When Auston gets there, Paul explains what the police had told them. Since Mitch is no longer in Canada, the jurisdiction for the search is transferred to the police force in America. As of 10AM today, the Canadian government offices in there have already been notified of the report, and they will then liaise with the local authorities to verify if there are records showing if and when the person entered and/or departed from the country. From there they will decide what course of action to take next.

Basically, the Canadian police is saying that they can’t actively look for Mitch in another country, and they will just have to rely solely on the resources of the local authorities’ in the US.

The good news is that they have more or less an idea where he might be at this exact moment. Given his condition, Mitch can’t have driven anywhere beyond the American Northeast, and they’re already in the process of coordinating with the authorities in the region. However, if Mitch is intent on leaving, which he is, he’d try to put as much distance between him and Toronto; in three days, maybe even two, he can be anywhere in either the Midwest or Southeast. 

It becomes clear to Auston then what he must do, and when he announces it to everyone in the room, no one questions him. He doesn’t exactly have a plan but he knows he has to go now. He’ll figure things out once he’s on the road.

“I’ll come with you,” Dylan says.

“Are you sure?”

Dylan nods. “He’s your soulmate,” he says. “If anyone can find him, it’s you.”

Paul agrees, and so does Chris, and they all create a rough plan together. Paul will drive all the way to Harrisburg. Chris will drive down to Erie, and then to Cleveland. Dylan and Auston are going eastward, hitting Buffalo, Rochester, and Syracuse until they reach Albany. It isn’t much of a plan, but it’s a start.

**x**

It’s three in the afternoon when they reach Buffalo, six in the evening when they finish getting in touch with all the hospitals and police stations in the city. By that point Dylan and Auston had developed a rhythm with which to operate. Dylan does all the Googling, while Auston does the driving. Dylan also does most of the talking now, a role he volunteered himself into after Auston was almost arrested in Lockport for “disrespecting” an officer. Lockport Police Department didn’t have any record of Mitch’s report, the idiot officer said. It usually took a while for reports from abroad to get into the main system, he said, and when asked how long it took he simply shrugged. Auston asked then if he can file a new missing persons report since he has all the necessary information, and the idiot officer said sure but they will still need the supervising officer to approve of it before any investigation can start. How long would that take, Auston asked. The idiot officer wasn’t sure, a couple of hours maybe? Auston almost had an aneurysm, and he tells the idiot officer the government is wasting tax payer’s money on him because he’s shit at his job. Dylan had to physically pull him away before the idiot officer can make good on his threat to put Auston behind bars.

Aside from the occasional bathroom breaks, they hardly stop. At nine-thirty that night, when they realize neither of them had had lunch yet, they stop to buy dinner and eat their food as they continue driving along I-90 toward Rochester.

It’s around ten in the evening when Dylan’s phone lights up on the dashboard and starts ringing. Dylan looks at the caller ID and smiles softly.

“Hey,” Dylan answers. 

Auston hears faintly the words being spoken on the other line, but he can’t really understand any of them.

“Could be better, I guess. Auston and I are looking for him now. I dunno, somewhere in upstate New York. We’re headed to Rochester right now. Yeah, maybe, but we have to try, you know?”

Auston suddenly realizes who he’s talking to, and as much as he tries not to listen in, inside the car, he has no choice.

“Oh, yeah? What did they say? Shit. I’m sorry. I _know_ it’s not my fault but I’m still sorry you had to go through all that. Yeah, I know.” Dylan pauses, and then chuckles fondly. “I can almost imagine what it looked like, two cops coming in and asking for you. He probably thought you’re being taken in for malpractice…Sorry. It’s not funny. I know. Yeah, all right, sure. Will do. Bye, Davo.”

For a moment, Auston doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes on the road and keeps driving, but he can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Dylan says after a while.

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging. “I’m just glad you’re friends now. What was that about anyway?”

“Oh, the cops came to the hospital and asked him a few questions—“

“No, what I meant was, I thought you didn’t like him.”

Dylan is quiet for a long while. 

“When I first met him,” he says, “I felt this overwhelming contentment rushing through me, and for the first time in like a really long time I felt happy. Then I turned around and saw Mitch on his bed looking so exhausted even in his sleep. I felt so guilty for feeling that way when my best friend was dying in front of me. So I tried to distance myself from him. I figured we have all the time in the world, you know? The time I don’t have with Mitch. I told myself he can wait. I had priorities.”

“What changed?” asks Auston, briefly looking at Dylan before turning his attention back to the road.

“The day before Mitch left,” says Dylan, “he told me he’d never forgive me if I didn’t get my shit together. He said, and I quote, ‘you think you have all the time in the world until you don’t. I’d cut off a limb to spend one more day with Auston’. Then I realized I was being silly.”

**x**

They had agreed to trade places when one of them gets tired from driving, and in fact had traded places a couple of times, but shortly after they left Rochester it becomes apparent that neither of them are at any capacity to drive any further, not without sleeping for a while. So somewhere between Clifton Springs and Phelps, they repose at an inn and updates everyone about the day’s progress, which isn’t much.

It’s not yet two in the morning when they check into their room. They both agree to set the alarm for 5:30AM, giving them at least a couple of hours to sleep.

That night Auston sleeps without dreaming.

In the morning, they set out for Syracuse early. The sky is still dark when they reach the city. At this point every police station they go to tells them the same things, that the report has already been filed and processed, that a search is already underway, and that they can't do anything else but wait for something to turn up. So Auston and Dylan put up posters and visit hospitals and try not to be consumed by the overwhelming hopelessness that arrests them at every turn.

Chris has just arrived in Cleveland, while Paul is driving down to Lancaster. Bonnie…Auston doesn't know what she’s doing. He doesn't want to message her only to say he hasn't found Mitch yet.

Auston figures he should call his own mom, tell her what happened. It doesn't feel right keeping her in the dark like this. He should probably tell the team, too. Their worried messages have been pouring in since yesterday, but he hasn't replied to any of them. 

Eventually, Auston does reply at midday in one of their pitstops en route to Albany. He does it on the group chat so he doesn't have to keep repeating himself. The replies are immediate, and soon the whole chat is flooded with concerned messages. Auston appreciates the concern, he really does, but after a while he has to mute the whole thing. He calls his mom, too, and he cries the whole time.

**x**

They run into their first traffic jam on the I-90 just past Utica. In three hours they’ve probably covered a little more than five miles, hampering whatever good progress they’ve made thus far. After another hour or so, they finally drive past the source of the congestion: apparently a twelve-wheeler had skidded along the tarmac and tipped over onto its side, crashing into six more vehicles. It’s a bloodbath. It’s the only thing that keeps him from pressing on the accelerator too hard.

Twilight is fast approaching when they reach Albany, and the whole time they’re there, Auston can see Dylan deflate each time they’re told there isn’t a Mitchell Marner there. After they’ve visited all the places they needed to visit, Auston starts to feel hopeless himself. Here is their last stop, and there’s still no sign of Mitch anywhere. 

When he decided he was going to look for Mitch, there was an instinct that pulled him eastward. He trusted that instinct because he believed it will lead him to Mitch. But it seems they’re no closer to him than when they started their search two days ago. 

Still, he nudges Dylan’s shoulder as they leave St. Peter’s Hospital and tells him, “don’t be discouraged. There’s a lot of places we still haven’t looked.”

That’s true, too. 

They can go to Troy, and if he’s not there, they can drive up to Saratoga Springs, then Glens Falls. They could even go to Vermont and start looking there until they finally find him, because when you love someone you don’t just give up on them.

Well, Mitch isn’t in Troy, too, and it’s well past midnight when they finally decide to continue their search tomorrow morning, because if they didn’t “I’m gonna collapse into a crying heap on the ground,” Dylan says.

They find a decent place to sleep and settles in for the night, and when Auston’s head hits the pillow, he lets his heavy lids fall shut.

But Auston doesn’t sleep. Not really. Every time he finds himself drifting off, a nagging thought crosses his mind and he’d be pulled back into consciousness. It’s as if he had somehow forgotten to do a project due in the morning, and it doesn’t allow him to rest.

Then the pounding behind his right eyeball comes, angry and insistent. 

For a moment all he can do is lie there, trying to listen to what his body is telling him. He doesn’t know what it is, but he doesn’t like it.

Auston turns and tosses in bed, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, and he maybe gets a little more than fifteen minutes of sleep before he’s woken up again by the pounding in his head, now back with a vengeance.

Before he realizes he’s doing it, he starts putting on his clothes and shakes Dylan’s legs

“Wha?” Dylan mutters, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Dude, we need to go,” he says.

Dylan gives him a confused look. “Huh? Go where?”

Auston has no answer to that. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know but we have to go now.”

Dylan must have sensed the rising panic in his voice because he does what he’s told and gets up from the bed. Auston does a poor job of hiding this discomfort,and Dylan sees it, offering to drive. Auston waves it aside.

It isn’t the headache that bothers him. It’s the tightness in his chest that almost sends him heaving on the side of the road. It’s the tingling in his hands and fingers. It’s the cold sweat that beads on his forehead despite the subzero temperatures.

Auston deals as stoically as he can. But after a while his vision starts to double, blur, and then clear—only for it to start again. Every time it happens he has to grip the steering wheel a little harder and remember to go easy on the accelerator.

It feels as if they’re running out of time.

**x**

Auston is so determined to get to Saratoga Springs that he loses all sense of the world around him. In his trance, the only thing that exists is him, his car, and the icy road in front of him. He doesn’t even notice his phone ringing until Dylan points it out.

“Dude, your phone’s blowing up,” he says.

Snapping out of his daze, Auston fishes his phone from his pocket. It's an unknown number. 

“Hello?”

No answer.

“ _Hello_?”

There’s a faint breathing on the other end of the line, and when Auston hears ithis heart races.

“Auston…I'm scared.”

It's all Auston can do not to slam on the brakes. He can recognize that voice anywhere, and the way it came out small and fragile made him sick to his stomach.

“Mitch?”

Dylan whips his head around, motioning for him to put it on speaker. 

“Mitch, where are you?” Auston asks, his voice trembling. “Tell me where you are and I'll come get you.” Auston wants to scream at him, yell hurtful things at him but his fear overrides all thought.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Goddammit, Mitch,” he snaps. “I need to know where you are.” 

“I don’t _know_ ,” Mitch whimpers.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Tell me that, at least.” 

“I…No.” 

“No you’re not hurt or no you’re not okay?” 

“No.” 

“Babe, please. I need more than that.” 

“I’m…I’m in bed. In a motel.”

“Okay, okay, that's good. What is it called?” 

“I…don’t know.” 

Auston wants to scream. “Give me something, Mitch. Anything.” 

“I…I…planes. I hear planes all the time. They’re…they're so loud, Auston.”

“I need you to do something for me okay? I want you to look out of the window and tell me what you see.” 

“No!” The outburst surprises Auston. “I can’t. Please. He’ll see me.” 

“Who will?” 

“The man with no face. He’s…he’s been following me. I—I see him everywhere. He thinks I don't know but I do.”

For a split second, fear surges through Auston, but the more he thinks about it the more it makes no sense. He looks to Dylan.

“He’s delirious,” says Dylan, his expression grave. “That’s not good.”

“Is the door locked?” Auston says, playing along. “Good. That’s good. Now, I really need you to look out the window.” 

“Please don’t make me do it.” 

“Only for a bit, I promise. I just need you to take a peek. That’s it.” 

“No,” says Mitch, sobbing now.

“Please? For me.” 

Auston doesn't hear anything for a while except for Mitch’s crying, but then there’s the rustling of sheets and some shuffling. 

“There’s…a railroad. I—I see tracks.”

Beside Auston, Dylan whips his phone out and starts typing stuff into it.

“Listen, I need to get off the phone for a little bit, okay?”

“No!”

“Mitch, listen to me. I’ll call you back as soon as I can. I just need to—”

“Don’t leave! He’s gonna come, Auston. He’s gonna find me. I know it.”

“I swear to you, I will call you back. It’ll be two minutes tops.”

“O…okay.” 

“Stay in your room, okay? I’ll call you right back.”

Auston flicks his hazard lights on, pulls over on the side of highway, and immediately calls their investigating officer, telling him about Mitch making contact. He asks Auston to give him the number so they can track it down. As Auston does, his fingers shake so violently he can’t even use his phone properly. 

It seems like forever when the investigating offer gets back to them. He says the signal is coming from somewhere in Schenectady, no, in Albany, they can’t betoo sure of the precise location, but he’s already getting in touch with the local authorities in both areas.

“I think I know where he is,” Dylan says, not taking his eyes away form his phone. “He says he’s hearing planes, right? There are three motels near Albany International Airport and they’re all bisected by a rail line. See?” 

Dylan shows him his phone; there are three red dots displayed on the map.

“We can get there in 20 minutes,” Dylan adds.

Auston nods and starts driving. When they dial Mitch’s number, he answers immediately. 

“Mitch, we’re coming,” says Auston. “We’re gonna get you, okay?”

“Shhh,” Mitch says. “He’s here.”

A picture of Mitch hiding under a blanket suddenly coms to Auston’s mind, and for a moment he entertains the idea that maybe Mitch is lucid after all and someone really is following him. “What the fuck does he want?” he finds himself asking.

On the other line, he hears Mitch echoing his question. “He’s…he's not saying anything,” Mitch says. “He’s just standing at the foot of the bed staring at me.” 

“Tell him your boyfriend is coming and if I see him there I’m gonna beat the living shit out of him.”

Something happens then that Auston doesn’t expect. Mitch chuckles, high pitched and childlike. It sends a shiver down Auston’s spine. 

“You hear that, asshole? He’s coming! So you…you better fuck outta here.”

Auston steps on the gas a little harder. 

They try to talk keep a conversation with Mitch, but after a while he just stops responding, even though the line is still connected. If they listen close enough, they can hear the rustling of the sheets and, farther away, Mitch’s labored breathing.

They make it back in Albany in thirteen minutes, and as they pull up to the first motel on the map. Mitch isn't there, and neither is he on the second. 

Auston is starting to believe maybe they got it all wrong when they reach their third and final destination, but then Dylan points toward the parking lot, where Mitch’s car, frozen and snowbound, is parked.

The motel looks abandoned but actually isn’t. Its paint is peeling, its windows tinted dark. The sign announcing its presence is missing an “M” and an “O”. It’s so run-down from disrepair that it’s impossible to think anyone willingly staying in this nightmarish place where prostitutes are probably murdered on the regular and drugs trafficked.

The guy at the front desk, seeing two tall and imposing men, startles when theycharge into the reception area.

“We need to know what room he’s staying in,” Dylan says gruffly, shoving the missing person’s flyer at the guy’s face.

At first all he does is stare blankly at the photo, and then after a while says, “Can’t give you that information, I’m afraid.”

“I don't think you understand. We're not asking.”

“I can’t do that. That’s against the law.”

“Look, he’s dying and we need to get him to the hospital right away,” Dylan says, getting visibly upset now.

The guy huffs a laugh. “Cool story, bro. Now, get out of my face before I call the cops.”

Dylan grabs the guy’s collar and gets right into his face. “Listen, you punk. We _are_ working with the cops. If you don't give us the room right this instant, I swear to god, I will have your ass thrown in jail for negligent homicide. You want to call the cops? Here, you can talk to one.” To drive the point home, Dylan whips his phone out and starts dialing one of their case officer’s number while his other hand grips the guy’s shirt harder.

A look of pure horror takes over the guy’s face when the call is picked up. “Officer Jenkins, how may I be of service?”

Before Dylan can utter any word, the guy claps a hand over his mouth. “Alright, alright,” the guy whispers. “Follow me.”

Dylan hangs up.

With quick agile strides, the guy leads them up the stairs and through a desolate hallway. There’s a moment after they reach the room but before they open the door when the hairs at the back of Auston’s neck stand up.

The room is dark, all the curtains inside drawn. But the soft amber light coming from the lamp on the bedside table is enough to illuminate the limp figure on the bed. 

Mitch is lying on his stomach, one arm hanging from the side of the bed. 

Auston rushes to his side, and when he gets there his heart plummets. There’s blood everywhere. There’s blood running down Mitch’s nose. There's blood dribbling out his mouth. There's blood on his clothes, on the bedsheets, on the pillows.

Auston jumps on the bed and turns Mitch on his back, gently propping his head up. Mitch’s eyes are half closed and unseeing, but when Auston touches his face a flicker of recognition appears in his eyes.

“You’re safe now,” Auston says, his voice breaking. “I’m here. Everything going to be alright.”

The slightest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Mitch’s bloody mouth. “You…you…here.”

“Stay with me, Mitch. Help is coming.” At some point in the confusion, Auston manages to yell for Dylan to call 911.

Mitch reaches up to touch Auston’s face, but he’s so weak that his arm just trembles. Auston has to take his hand and hold it against his cheek. Mitch hacks violently, spitting out more blood, some of it thicker than the rest, and clotted. Dylan pulls out a handkerchief and tries to dab the blood away.

At that instant Auston is suddenly overcome by a sharp feeling of peace washing over him. It feels not unlike waking up in the middle of the night and realizing you still have a couple of hours to sleep; all he wants to do right then is to close his eyes and succumb to sleep.

Weakly, slowly, Mitch squeezes Auston’s hand. “Can I go now?”

Auston chokes out a sob, or maybe it’s Dylan. He doesn’t know anything anymore. 

“No,” says Auston. “Not yet.”

Mitch’s face breaks. 

“I'm…I’m so tired, Auston.”

Auston leans down and presses his lips against Mitch’s, tasting the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. “But I can’t lose you. You have to hold on for me, okay? I'll be here the whole time. I won't leave you. Not anymore. I promise.”

Mitch doesn't reply, but he does try to stay awake even though it seems every passing second he’s awake pains him. When he starts to shiver, Auston removes his jacket and wraps it around Mitch.

When the paramedics finally come, they immediately starts checking all his vitals and it’s immediately decided that there’s not much the paramedic can do. They have to rush him to the hospital. Before lifting Mitch onto a stretcher and strapping him in, they give him some morphine to help with the pain.

It’s effect is instant, because Mitch’s grip on Auston’s hand slips.

Auston gives Dylan his car keys before he follows the paramedics out and into the ambulance.

“I’ll catch up with you,” says Dylan.

**x**

At the hospital, neither the doctors nor the nurses him anything about Mitch, only that he had lost a lot of blood and entered hypovolemic shock. It’s been two hours now, and there’s still no news.

Auston can’t rid himself of Mitch’s image lying there on the bed and bleeding, and as he sits there in the emergency room, it keeps playing in his head on a loop. At the back of his mind he figures he should start calling people, but he can’t get himself to move. Since they barred him from following Mitch into the operating room, Auston has remained in one spot unmoving.

When Dylan finds him there an hour later, he tells him that Bonnie is already boarding her flight, while Chris and Paul are arriving by noon. As for the guy at the front desk of the motel, it turns out he was housing a couple drug pushers in the premises—all of them has since been arrested. 

A while later, Dylan leaves his side and when he comes back, he hands him a moist towelette, pointing at his mouth where Mitch’s blood had dried.

Auston doesn’t know how it happened and when, but at one point while they wait in the emergency room, all emotional response just shut down. The fear he had felt a few hours ago had dulled. The despair had petered out and melted away. The anger disappeared completely.

He can’t even utter more than a few sentences when Mitch’s family finally arrived. He just sits there stroking the mark on the inside of his wrist.

Since he’s met Mitch, its color hasn't really changed much, if at all. He had thought that as time progressed it would get duller and duller until it faded completely from his skin. But it’s still there, and the sight of it comforts him.

When a doctor finally comes out and greets them there in the narrow hallway, Auston makes the mistake of asking what’s wrong with Mitch.

“The more pertinent question I think is, ‘what isn’t wrong with him?’” 

As it turns out his cancer has metastasized into his skin, gums, spinal cord, and soon his brain, too. He also suffered multiple organ damage, which the doctors tried to address and are still keeping an eye out on. They also replenished all the lost fluid and blood. They also administered dobutamine and epinephrine to increase the heart’s function and promote overall circulation. Now they’re just monitoring his cardiac response to measure how effective the treatment is.

The doctor allows none of them to see him that day.

**x**

Mitch slips in and out of consciousness the first two days, too weak to even blink or speak or squeeze their hands.

On the third day, Mitch speaks for the first time, having acquired just enough strength to mumble to Auston, “no more hospitals.” It comes out weak and labored, but Auston feels the intensity behind those words. 

Auston nods and tells him, “you got it.”

Auston already promised him once that he will get him out of the hospital no matter what. Auston meant it then, and he means it now.

**x**

With Dr. Zimmer’s help, they swiftly arrange Mitch’s transfer to his hospital in Toronto a week later. It isn’t what Mitch had asked, but it’s only a temporary arrangement while they set up a station at home.

The station takes two days to finish, because they have trouble finding a hospital bed. 

The first time Auston sees it, he decides he doesn’t like it, because it reminds him so much of death. The station is replete with an oxygen tank, respiratory monitor, an IV stand, humidifier, a store of disposable gloves, alcohol pads, wound and skin care supplies, masks, disinfectants.

Auston thought that he’d feel better once he sees Mitch back home, but it has the opposite effect, primarily because the Mitch they come home with is so different than the one he last saw in this house.

Mitch sleeps most of the day now, sleeps nineteen hours in twenty-four, and when he is awake and Auston holds his hand, it's almost like he barely sees him. There’s also a nasal cannula attached to his nose now because he can’t breathe on his own anymore. And when they feed him his meds, they have to use a syringe to get it into his mouth.

Auston does it for the first time tonight, sucking the brown liquid from the bottle and then pushing it out onto Mitch’s mouth, after which he strokes Mitch’s cheek with the back of his hands as he urges him to swallow, there you go, just a couple of more, now that’s a good boy.

A few nights later, after he feeds Mitch and the house settles down for the night, Bonnie finds him outside on the porch swing and hands him a piece of paper, a letter she says she found in Mitch’s room the night he left.

“I meant to give it to you but it kept slipping my mind,” she says with a sad smile. She rubs Auston’s shoulder before leaving him alone to read its contents.

Auston stares at it for a long while before he starts to read.

> Dear Auston,
> 
> If you’re reading this, then I’m afraid we’ve reached the end—or at least I did. That’s why I decided to write this letter because there’s still so much I want to tell you. Please know that I tried to hold on for as long as I could. I really did. For my family and especially for you, but I’m afraid I wasn’t that strong. I thought I was but I’m not. 
> 
> Sorry I had to go. I’m sorry I won’t always be there when you need me. I’m sorry that I was sick and you had to suffer for it. Above all, I’m sorry that I never had the chance to show you how much I really loved you. Someday I know you’ll be able to forgive me.
> 
> Writing this letter turns out to be a lot harder than I thought, because as I write this you’re snoring beside me and these goddamn tears won’t stop falling, but I need to write this down before I lose all coherence, and I think I’m starting to lose it.
> 
> You were my rock, Auston. I don’t think it’s possible for me to tell you just how much you meant to me. You came into my life when I felt the least good about myself, but even in my broken state you saw so much to cherish and respect. You showed me how being alive can be such a grand thing. The last two months with you were the happiest two month of my life and I want to thank you for that.
> 
> Look after Dylan for me, because he’s not gonna look after himself. Make sure he goes back to school and finish his degree. Try to visit mom and dad, too, whenever you can, because they do love you, and they’d want to know how you’re doing once in a while.
> 
> I’m so very proud of you and what you’ve already accomplished. I can’t wait for you to grow into the great athlete I know you will be.
> 
> I want you to know that every time you think of me, I’m thinking of you, too. So whenever you feel lonely, just close your eyes and I’ll be right there beside you. You’re never not in my heart and in my mind. I’ll be watching over you always. I love you. 
> 
> Yours forever,
> 
> Mitch

That night while he watches Mitch sleep, Auston cards his fingers through Mitch’s hair where it is matted against his forehead. He’s never told Mitch how much he likes his hair, likes how soft it is in his hands. He can’t think why he hasn’t.

Resting his head on the pillow, Auston touches his face against Mitch’s, feeling what little warmth still left in it. There are more shadows in his face now, and more loose skin. He looks so pale and sick and cold, but asleep he seems almost at peace, content.

Connor says that although he may seem unresponsive, Mitch can still hear. He may not answer, but he still hears. Hearing is the last thing that goes, and speaking to him helps. 

Auston doesn’t know what to say, though. 

Auston wants to promise him that everything will be all right. He wants to promise painless days ahead, wants to promise that they can get through this, whatever happens. Auston wants to give him the world and more, but he can only do so much, and he can’t promise any of that. Instead he kisses Mitch’s lips and whispers that he loves him and promises to be there when he wakes up.


End file.
